


Every moment we have stolen

by my_deer_friend



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Boys Kissing, First Time Blow Jobs, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Internalized Homophobia, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Making Out, Siblings, Teen Crush, Teenagers, Tropical Holiday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend
Summary: John - seventeen, depressed, lonely, and struggling with his sexuality - hates family vacations.And to make it worse, instead of their usual destinations, Henry decided in a moment of madness that what his family really needs is a trip so far off the beaten track that they had to charter a seaplane to get here.Some godforsaken blip of an island called St Croix.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Comments: 158
Kudos: 308





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been knocking around my head for ages, based on the premise of what would happen if modern-day John met Alex by coincidence on a family holiday. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Come chat to me on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend :)

As soon as he gets permission from his father, John escapes the stifling holiday resort. 

He walks down to the pristine beach, past the sunbathers and deck chairs and resort umbrellas, and into the ocean until he’s knee-deep. For a moment, he imagines walking out until the water is deep enough that he can let himself drown - but that’s stupid, not only because the water stays shallow almost to the reef, but also because he isn’t a character is some teen melodrama.

He gets back out of the water and starts to walk, following the curve of the shore. He needs to get away. He knows he should be grateful - he’s a smart, good-looking kid in a rich, connected family; healthy and able; all his prospects laid out before him - but really he just wants to hide, to cry, to escape. 

_Fuck_ , John hates being seventeen.

He hates _everything_.

His father. His brothers. Mary Eleanor. (Martha gets a pass - she’s a shit but she’s all right.) His mother, for dying. His school, except for a few tolerable friends. The ten-ton weight of the family name. The future that has been set before him - every minute of his life planned out according to other people’s goals. 

And John _hates_ family vacations. They were tolerable while his mom was still alive and able to keep the peace among them, but now - forced to spend time with a distant, hapless father and a pack of younger siblings he has nothing in common with - they’re nothing short of agony. 

This one is made even worse by their location. Instead of their usual destinations, where his father can disappear to the golf course for the whole day and John has his holiday friends and familiar haunts, Henry decided in a moment of madness that what his family really needed was a trip so far off the beaten track that they had to charter a seaplane to get here. Some godforsaken blip of an island called St Croix.

But he hates _himself_ most of all - covered in all the indelible stains of his nature, burdened by the many masks he needs to swap out every day just to survive it all. 

It’s hard enough escaping from himself back home, but here - on this fucking backwards tropical island - John has no way to avoid all of the things that tighten the knot that lives permanently just below his diaphragm. John knows how to mind his manners, and he knows how not to appear ungrateful and depressed. But it doesn’t mean the feelings go away. At home he has release valves; here, under constant familial scrutiny, he just needs to keep bottling them up and hoping he doesn’t crack.

Given the draconian laws, he can’t even get a fucking _drink_.

It isn’t _fair_.

The pristine beaches and warm water and idyllic scenery can’t shift his glumness. He feels like a massive asshole about it, but that just adds fuel to his self-loathing.

So he walks, a small imitation of escape. He passes other resorts, each identified by its own coloured towels and sunshades, dotted with pale white skins baking to a red crisp in the Caribbean sun. 

Ugh, why can’t he just be _normal_ like them?

Why would god - who he believes in a little less each day - allow him to suffer this much?

Why can’t they invent some sort of procedure to amputate the part of him that is poisoning what could otherwise be a fucking decent life?

But there’s no cure for what he has.

In this anonymous setting, at least, John can let his eyes wander across the bodies from behind his sunglasses. He fixates on boys his age who are playing paddleball, chasing each other, swimming, buying ice creams from the beach vendors - all shirtless, lean, tanned, carefree. John bites the inside of his cheek. If he walks far enough, at least he can look without risking his family noticing.

So he walks and walks. Eventually the hotel beach-fronts come to an end, and the beach becomes less pristine - he comes across washed-up palm fronds and coconut husks and all sorts of other natural debris. He starts to see more locals as the tourists thin out, until eventually he’s the only outsider in sight. 

The walk has left him hot and sweaty, his skin tingling in the sun despite the sunscreen. John takes off his tank top and sunglasses, drops them on a dry rock, and walks back out into the water. This time he goes deeper, and when he’s waist-deep he slips under the surface. The ocean is so warm here that it’s not as refreshing as he wishes it was, but he starts to swim out, his arms cutting powerfully through the water. It’s so clear and calm that he feels he could swim for a mile and not feel it. But the sensible part of his brain reminds him that he’s away from the safety of the resort and no one knows he’s here, so he settles for swimming out about a hundred yards and then turns back to shore. 

The water streams off him as he steps back onto the hot sand, and the salt quickly starts drying on his face. John realises that he hasn’t really thought this through - no towel, nothing to drink, his hair is going to be a frizzy mess, and… 

Shit, his stuff is gone. 

He looks around helplessly, certain this is where he left his shirt and sunglasses. He feels a sequence of miniature panics - someone stole his things, he’s going to have to walk back shirtless and without glasses in the burning sun, he’s going to have to explain to his father...

Then somebody whistles - the kind of sharp, short noise you make to get someone’s attention - and John takes a moment to realise it’s directed at him.

He looks up towards a stand of nearby palm trees, hanging low, almost horizontal, over the water. When he shades his eyes with his hand, he spots a kid sitting up on one of the trunks, one leg hanging down and a book held half-closed in his hand. He’s giving John a calculating look, but he’s also holding up his belongings.

John walks over, cautious. His father has told him all sorts of things about the dangerous and uncivilised locals (which begs the question why Henry wanted to come here in the first place), and although he dismissed it as racist and xenophobic rubbish at the time, he can’t help the note of caution that chimes in his brain. He is, after all, firmly on foreign and unfamiliar turf.

As he gets closer, he studies the kid, who is around his age. He certainly doesn’t look dangerous. He’s wearing what must be a school uniform, but it’s the weirdest uniform that John has ever seen, the cut all wrong on his frame. His skin is a bit browner than John’s, but he’s not as dark as most of the locals, and his hair has an auburn note that shines redly in the patches of sunlight that come through the palm fronds. But he’s undoubtedly a native, if only because he doesn’t look at all flushed or sweaty.

John gets to the palm and puts a hand on the trunk, trying to look confident and casual but probably hitting closer to awkward. _Fuck_ does he _hate_ being seventeen. He looks up at the boy. 

“Here,” the kid says, his accent a weird mix of American English and Creole, swallowing his initial H. He hands down John’s things, and John immediately puts the sunglasses on so that he doesn’t have to squint into the bright sunlight. “You shouldn’t leave your stuff lying around. Anyone could take it,” he adds with a smirk. 

Now that John can see better, he looks up and into the most startling face he’s ever seen - sharp cheekbones and pouting lips and uncanny storm-blue eyes sparkling with mischief. 

_Fuck_ , he’s _cute_.

“Um, thanks,” John replies. He tries not to stare.

He’s probably imagining it, but for a second he thinks the boy is checking him out. Then he shrugs and says, “You’re a good swimmer, for a tourist.”

“I have state colours,” John answers automatically. “That’s like, when--”

“I know what it _means_ ,” the boy replies, rolling his eyes. “Where are you from? You sound southern but you look mixed-race.”

John finds that he’s answering, not really sure why. “Right on both counts. I’m from South Carolina, my dad’s white but my mom was Dominican.”

“Ah! _Hablas español_?”

“Oh, ah, sorry, not really.”

The boy frowns at him. “Why not?”

“Um. I guess I never got around to learning and when she died I…” He doesn’t know how to finish that - didn’t think it was worth bothering?

“Whatever. Just be more careful, you don’t blend in and there’s lots of unscrupulous people around here. Stealing stuff. Taking advantage. Luring tourists into dark alleys.”

Even though he says it casually, John flushes. But he’s so intrigued by this odd boy with his judgemental eyes that he ignores his discomfort and asks, “What are you reading?”

He holds up the book cover - it looks like some sort of generic airport mystery novel. “You’d be surprised what people leave lying around,” he says with another smirk. “But sadly this is just your standard American paperback garbage.”

“Oh yeah? What do you read normally then? Plato?” John asks, trying to sound smart and snarky.

This question triggers an unlikely rant. “I know you’re trying to be sarcastic but yes, I have read Plato actually. Most of the time though it’s the same stupid school textbooks, which I’ve already finished twice over but the teachers don’t really have anything else to set or they just aren’t creative enough with their pedagogy. My foster family has a bunch of stuff but I’m not allowed to take it out of the house, and god, who would want to sit inside and read, and the only two bookshops here are pretty much devoted to tourist guides and maps. But I’m good at scavenging. I’m teaching myself Latin from a book I found. _Somnia caela habent_ and all that.”

“Wow, okay.” John considers, and in a split-second, his brain has gone from cautious to reckless. “My father made me pack some school books, though most of it is pretty boring. If you like, I could, uh, leave them lying around…”

The boy sits up, eager. “Oh really? Well, I’m not gonna say no to that.”

“I’m warning you, though, it really is miserable reading. AP civics and some random first-year pol-sci stuff my father insists I read ahead for college.”

His warning had the opposite of its intended effect. “Oh man, that’s amazing. Did I mention? I’m saving up to go study in the States - gonna get a scholarship and finish my degree two semesters early then do law and then get into government and just you wait and see, I’ll be president one day.” Each phrase is faster and more breathless than the last.

John laughs. The kid looks offended. 

“I’m not joking.”

“You have to be a US citizen to be president,” John points out.

He scoffs. “Technicality. I’ll find a way. Just you wait and see. Everyone’s gonna know the name Alexander Hamilton one day.”

“Is that _your_ name?” John asks, incredulous. “I thought you were from around here.”

The boy - Alexander - crosses his arms. “I am. Both things can be true. We don’t all have crazy French names here. I’ll have you know that my dad is descended from Scottish nobility.”

“No way,” John laughs.

Alexander pouts. “It’s true! That’s why I have this stupid red hair. And anyway, if I was going to make something up, wouldn’t I make it sound more plausible?”

“If you were making it up, that’s exactly what you would say…”

Alexander raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, okay. I’m John, by the way. John Laurens.”

Alexander laughs, turning his incredulity back on him. “What kind of name is that for a _dominicano_?” But when John holds up his hand to shake, Alexander takes it. His skin is warm and soft, his hand slender but the grip firm. “Nice to meet you, John Laurens.”

“So, uh… you just hanging out? Is it after school yet?”

“Yeah, but I skipped out earlier. No point going. I’ve already mastered calculus at the SAT level so what’s the fucking point of sitting through algebra?”

John gives him an impressed look. “You must be pretty smart.”

Alexander turns his nose up. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I didn’t mean-- you just seem to be really into schoolwork.”

“It’s my ticket off this island. I’ve already started pre-applying to a bunch of colleges.”

“Hang on, how old are you?”

“Sixteen.” Which is actually surprising, because judging by his small size, John would not have been surprised if he was two years younger.

“And already applying? I’m a year older and even _my_ father doesn’t put that kind of pressure on me.” 

Alexander shrugs, signalling his lack of interest in John’s activities or family dramas.

“So, shall we go liberate some books then?” John asks. He realises he’s enjoying this encounter and he wants to prolong it - there’s something about this island boy with his thin arms and proud cheekbones and quirked lips that makes John feel the need to stay in his orbit. He blushes at the thought, hoping the general flush from the sun hides it.

“Oh. Sorry, I need to go to work just now. In fact, shit - I’m gonna be late. Can we arrange a time later?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Well?”

John does some quick math. “I can come out around seven.”

“Great. I’ll be off work by then. Where are you staying?”

John gives him the name of the resort.

Alexander raises an eyebrow. “Fancy. I can walk with you for a bit if you’re heading back, it’s on my way. Keep you safe from dangerous locals.” He hops down from the tree and discards the mystery book. 

John laughs. Even at full height, Alexander is a good few inches shorter than him, and about twice as skinny.

“Sure...” 

“Hey, I’m feisty. I can hold my own.”

John doesn’t doubt it - though he suspects Alexander could probably get out of a fight more effectively by talking than by punching.

They set off side by side. John feels an awkward but pleasant tingle in his body at their closeness. He’s completely absorbed by this loud, smart, attractive boy. He imagines taking his hand, slipping an arm around his waist, pulling his face closer with a hand on his chin... 

His quiet musings are interrupted when one of the locals calls out to Alexander, who shoots back an answer in Creole, and John gets the creeping and probably irrational feeling that Alexander just said something about him. John’s tingle turns to discomfort and he suddenly feels out of his depth. But they walk on, Alexander with his hands in his pockets, John with his shirt slung over his shoulder so he can dry off. 

Again, he notices, or imagines, Alexander shooting him the occasional sidelong glance.

He studies Alexander himself out of the corner of his eye. The uniform looks even funnier now, and although it’s neat and clean, John can see the fabric is worn. Perhaps the reason it’s so ill-fitting is that it was handed down.

“So, John Laurens, how has your holiday been?”

“Um… I don’t mean to sound like an ungrateful shit, but honestly it’s pretty awful. My father and my kid siblings are just… too much. The island’s nice though,” he adds, not wanting to sound like he’s criticising Alexander’s home.

“Nah, it’s a shithole. Your dad sounds like a piece of work, making you do homework while you’re on break.”

“He just thinks that’s what parenting is meant to be. Fathers, huh?” John says it like a joke, but the tone comes out surprisingly bitter.

Alexander shrugs to himself and changes the topic. “So what do you get up to all day in the resort?”

“Oh, just the usual stuff - eat a ton, swim in the pool, lie around, avoid my family. Homework, in theory.”

“That’s... nice? I dunno. Never been. Honestly, it sounds pretty boring. Just sitting around, wasting time.”

John chuckles. “Somehow I don’t think you’d like it. No classes, no libraries…”

Alexander cuffs him playfully and John feels a ripple of energy spread through his body. “You make me sound like a nerd.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not my fault that my talents lie in academia,” Alexander grumbles in response, not sounding in the least bit humble.

“We usually go somewhere familiar on holiday, so at least I can escape to see my friends or something. But this place is… Can’t even get a beer here with this draconian no-under-18s rule.”

Alexander shoots him a conspiratorial glance. “Well, there, John Laurens, I can be of some assistance.”

“Oh?”

“No one cares about your age if you’re a local. Tell you what…” John can practically see the cogs in his head spinning. “I’ll come by this evening and trade you your books for some drinks.”

John grins. “It’s a date,” he risks.

Alexander scrunches his nose. “Nah, you’re not really my type.” John is about to apologise for the stupid remark when Alexander winks at him, and all his insides immediately turn to mush.

Fuck...

John laughs awkwardly. “Okay then. Just a hang-out.” 

Alexander stops and looks up the beach, towards the road. “This is my stop. Bring something to swim in,” he says as he peels off. “It’ll be worth it, promise.”

John gives a friendly wave and keeps walking, but his stomach is churning. Could it be that he’s just met a guy who might be into him as well? Is that even possible?

It’s too much to hope for, but he can’t help it. 

His mind whirls as it replays their conversation. Alexander was teasing him the whole time, but was there perhaps a flirtatious undertone? Were those glances innocent or loaded? Those smirks, that wink... John isn’t very good at relationships - especially not with guys - but all of that could mean something, surely.

He feels an itch under every part of his skin. He can’t stop thinking about Alexander’s teasing voice and his reddish hair and the corner of his mouth when it pulls up just before he shoots out another teasing jab.

Thank god he’s not home, surrounded by judging eyes. 

Suddenly this holiday doesn’t seem so miserable after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a date - is it?

The five hours before John can meet Alexander again are agony. 

He is over-full of energy but there is nowhere to direct it. He realises with increasing frustration just how _boring_ holiday resorts are.

He heads up to his family suite. Henry has booked a massive space for them - a large private lounge with four adjoining bedrooms, one for Henry, one for John, and then one each for his brothers and his sisters. It’s rare that being the oldest has its perks, but he is extremely grateful for the privacy it now affords him.

First, he takes a long shower to rinse off all the sand and the salt, which stings his eyes as he washes his face. Then he scrubs at his frizzy mess of hair, dumping a third of the conditioner on it before admitting defeat. He stands under the stream of water for a long while, just trying not to think. He briefly considers masturbating, but although he’s wound tight, it’s the wrong sort of energy.

When he’s done and dried off, he changes into a fresh pair of swimming trunks and a t-shirt - yes, he makes a special point to choose one that he knows will show off his chest and shoulders - and packs two of his textbooks into a satchel along with a fresh towel. 

He’s killed half an hour. Good lord! At this rate, seven won’t ever arrive.

He goes back out into the lounge area. Martha has just returned, slipping off her sandy shoes at the door and dropping her tote bag on one of the couches. She’s wearing what John considers to be an indecently skimpy swimsuit - she’s just fourteen, after all! - but he reminds himself that he’s not her parent so it’s none of his business. Martha gives him one look and immediately susses that something is on his mind.

“What happened?” she asks suspiciously.

John feigns confusion. “What?”

“You have a weird expression. What happened?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“John.”

“ _Martha_.”

“Ugh,” she rolls her eyes. “Fine, don’t tell me. I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about what?” Harry asks, popping his head out of his room, one headphone dangling free around his neck. 

“John’s being all cagey about something.”

Harry sneers at him. “Yeah, who would care about that?”

John takes a deep breath. There’s a big part of him that knows his siblings are all still suffering in the wake of their mother’s sudden passing, and that the shitty attitude he gets from them is a misdirected blend of anger, grief and emerging hormones. But that doesn’t make taking their snark any easier.

“Shouldn’t you be outside enjoying the resort instead of sitting here playing games?” he asks instead.

“It’s none of your damn business what I do,” Harry retorts.

“You know, you’re completely right,” John agrees. “Waste your holiday. Not my problem.”

Harry gives him an epic whole-headed eyeroll and retreats, slamming the door. Martha is smirking.

“When did he turn into such a little shit?”

John shrugs. They both _know_ the answer, but it’s nice to pretend that they don’t.

“Say, want to join me for early dinner? I think the buffet opens at six.”

Martha purses her lips and pinches at her belly. “I dunno. I feel like I’m getting fat already from all this food.”

“Jesus, Martha. We’ve been here two days. And you’re not _fat_ , stop saying that.” Where did she pick up that notion, he wonders.

She sighs. “Fine. But I’m taking a nap now.”

She vanishes as well. There’s no sight of Henry, Jemmy or Mary Eleanor, so they must be out together. John meanders into the resort lobby in desperate search of activities to keep his mind busy - but there’s _nothing_ to do. He does three laps of the resort grounds just to make sure. When he returns to the lobby after the third one, the clock reads three-fifteen.

It’ll _never_ be seven at this rate.

***

He drags Martha to dinner as soon as it’s served, avoiding Henry and the others like the plague. Now that the time to meet Alexander is rapidly approaching, John feels so nervous that he can barely stomach anything. Martha also doesn’t really fill her plate. They both pick at their food and chat about safe topics - school, friends, their terrible siblings. John does feel a pang of guilt at the thought of the bounty of food around them, on an island that is so poor, but he pushes it away. It wasn’t his choice to come here.

Martha doesn’t comment further on his mood, though it must be obvious now that he’s out of sorts. She nods amicably when they are done and John says he’s going to take a walk. She peels off back to their suite and John wanders down to the beach.

He makes sure to be a few minutes late, close enough to the time not to be rude, but not so early that he would risk revealing his eagerness. For a moment his heart falls when he doesn’t see Alexander at the agreed spot, but he catches sight of him a moment later. Now changed into a more casual and better-fitting outfit, Alexander is strolling up, frantically typing something into his phone - fingers flying, lip caught between his teeth, expression earnest. 

John watches him approach, grateful for the opportunity to observe Alexander. The firm thudding in his chest doubles in speed when those _eyes_ lift and meet his. Alexander grins. “Sorry I’m a little late. Got stuck at work. Ready?”

“Sure!” he says, then silently admonishes himself. _Keep it casual, you idiot_.

Alexander leads him along the beach, in the opposite direction to the one John had taken earlier. 

“Where do you work?” John asks.

“Shop in town,” Alexander says with an eye roll. “Retail assistant slash bookkeeper slash menial labourer. It’s fine though. The shop belongs to my foster parents and they are shockingly decent human beings so I don’t mind.”

John really wants to pry into this story, but Alexander is almost a complete stranger so it feels inappropriate to ask anything more.

“My dad made me get a summer job last year,” he says instead. “I thought working at the movie theater would be fun - you know, free popcorn, free tickets - but it was hell. It took me a month to scrub the fake butter smell out of my hair.”

Alexander laughs. “Why did he make you get a job?”

“I dunno. For the work ethic? To build character? It’s not like the money was anything special.”

“Hmm.” Now John gets the feeling there are things Alexander wants to say that he’s holding in.

“So, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Weren’t you the one who warned me not to get lured into a dark alley?”

Alexander laughs again. “Don’t be an idiot. See any dark alleys on this wide open beach, John Laurens? But yes, the place we’re going is a bit secluded, so if you have any doubts you’d better turn back now.”

John straightens a little so that he can look down on Alexander. “You know, I think I’d be okay. I can take you.”

“Doubt it.”

“Really?”

Alexander gives him a skeptical sidelong glare. “I know secret Caribbean martial arts.”

For just a second, John believes him. Then he catches the glint of mischief in the expressive eyes. “Liar.”

“Willing to take that chance?”

“Guess not,” he admits, playing along. They walk in companionable quiet for a moment. “You’re not _really_ Scottish, are you?”

“Am too! My mom was Haitian and my dad is from Scotland.” John catches the _was_ and his chest aches reflexively. “And yet somehow I ended up here on this ridiculous island.”

“So, can you play bagpipes? Do you wear the skirt thing?”

“Kilt,” Alexander corrects with an exasperated sigh. “No and no. Now you’re just being racist.”

“Against Scottish people?” John laughs.

“You know in the middle ages people actually thought the Scots had blue skin because of the warpaint? How dumb is that?”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Do you know facts about everything?”

“Only important things,” Alexander sniffs.

They have been walking for a while, and now they cross a rocky outcrop into a quiet cove, a little private beach away from all the tourists. Alexander drops his backpack and pulls off his shirt, revealing a thin, wiry torso and slender arms. 

“You’re in luck, John Laurens,” he announces, and John can’t help but agree even before he hears the rest of it. Out of his clothes, Alexander is _lovely_ , and all his to look at for the moment. “High tide at sunset is the best time to see it.”

“See what?” John asks, stripping down to his swimming trunks too. 

Alexander grins. “You’ll like this. Come on!” He races to the water and ducks under, John hot on his heels. He swims out with him past the rocky outcrop and follows Alexander’s finger as he points down towards -

“Corals?” John says.

In the still water below him is a brightly coloured landscape of plants, corals and fish of all kinds. It’s magnificent.

“Yes! Most of the ones near the beaches have been run down by the sea traffic, but this little patch has stayed pristine. Come on!”

He grabs John’s hand under the water and takes a deep breath. The sudden touch distracts John and he barely manages to gulp some air before the insistent hand is dragging him down. He’s lucky he did, because Alexander steals his breath.

Alexander points out all sorts of creatures each time they duck down together, but John is mesmerised by _him_ more than the scenery.

They stay in the water until it gets too dark to see properly, and they reluctantly return to shore. It’s still warm out, so John just dries off his face, puts his shirt back on, and then sits down on his towel. Alexander flops down in the sand next to him. 

“That was something else. Thank you,” John beams, and Alexander smiles back, just as wide.

“Not a lot of people know to come here.”

“Well, I’m glad you do.”

Alexander keeps smiling, looking up at him with a soft expression for a little longer than is strictly necessary. Then he sits up and rummages in his backpack, pulling out two bottles of beer that are still miraculously ice-cold. “As promised!” he says as he twists off the caps and hands one to John, then clinks his bottle against it and takes a sip.

John drinks deeply, refreshed by the cold bitterness after the warm salt water. They sit without talking for a few whole minutes, which seems astonishing by Alexander’s standards. 

Soon it’s fully dark, but Alexander pulls out a few candles, sticks them in the sand and lights them.

“Huh,” he says as he does it. “Candles and alcohol. I guess this is a date after all. Okay, John Laurens, show me the goods.”

John bursts out laughing at the double entendre, but he pulls out two textbooks and a paperback he swiped from the resort’s communal collection and hands them over. He notes with some embarrassment that one of the textbooks is brand new; he hadn't even bothered to crack the spine. 

Alexander takes them so reverently that it's almost comical. He immediately starts paging through one of them, and John suspects that if he just sat silently, Alexander would read the whole thing from cover to cover right there, by the weak light of the candles. 

John does take the chance to watch him, though, and Alexander is even more beautiful here than John remembers from earlier. 

Beautiful? Yes, he decides. His heart is racing with it. 

Fuck, what now?

Because, he rationalises, it’s not an entirely platonic thing to take someone you’ve just met to a secret beach, hold their hand, share a drink… and even if he is completely off the mark, it’s not like Alexander could blame him for getting the wrong idea. 

John files this thought away for future reference.

They finish their beers, and now Alexander produces a half-full bottle of local rum, takes a swig, then hands it to John. John hesitates for just a second - wine is about the strongest thing he’s ever had - but then he sees Alexander’s bright eyes shining at him expectantly in the candlelight, and he follows suit. At least it gives him the liquid courage to stick around in the atmosphere that seems to be growing thick around them. He hands the bottle back, and he doesn’t think it’s a complete accident when Alexander’s fingers brush his.

“I’ve narrowed it down to Boston, New York and California,” Alexander says suddenly.

“For what?”

“College. Harvard’s in Boston, after all. Cornell, UMass, it’s all up there in that part of the world.”

“Harvard, huh?”

Alexander shrugs. “Mostly for the name, you know. There are schools with better programmes but it’s all about getting in with the senators’ kids, isn’t it?”

John bites his lip. He’s one of these ‘kids’, after all. He thinks it’s better not to mention it.

“It’s very competitive,” John says instead.

Alexander gives him a displeased look. “Yes. I know that.”

John changes tack. “And California?”

“California is mostly for the weather. I don’t think I’d enjoy your winters.”

“The snow’s not so bad.”

“It is when you’re not used to the temperature dropping below the mid-eighties.”

“What about your alleged Scottish blood then?”

Alexander barks a laugh and reaches out to ruffle his hair. “Now you’re just being an asshole.”

“Hang on, am I an idiot or an asshole? Make up your mind.”

“Probably both,” Alexander says with a shrug, but there is a teasing smile on his face. He stretches his legs out and John stares; he almost misses the next question. “So where are you going to apply?”

“Oh, um, my father wants me to pick one of the big southern schools that churn out good little republicans, but I’m quite keen on Columbia. That’s in New York too.”

Alexander sits up, grinning. “Yes, I know. Me too! That’s my top choice actually. I mean Harvard’s fine for your old-school law stuff but the interesting thinking happens at the smaller schools. I bet you’ll get in, too, with your swimming colours and your white-people money.”

John flushes. “I bet you’ll get in too, with how smart you are.”

“You flatter me,” Alexander says, not sounding at all humble. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we ended up in the same class? I’m going to apply for pol-sci and econ to start with.”

John groans. “Don’t you want to swap places with me? My father would _kill_ for a son like you. I could spend all day hanging out on the beach and you can go be America’s number one lawyer-economist-politician.”

“He can’t force you into it if you don’t want to. Wouldn’t he support you if you chose something different?” Alexander asks carefully.

“Ugh, it’s not really that,” John sighs. “He just doesn’t get anything about me. I don’t want to go into law, or politics, and oh god the reaction when he finds out I’m gay…” John covers his face with his hands. With a heart-stopping jolt he realises he’s just _said_ _it_. Something about the current company has made the inhibition seem silly - but he needs to be more careful. “Sadly for him, I’m not much of an heir to his precious Laurens legacy.”

Alexander looks thoughtful as he takes another swig of rum and hands the bottle over. “So what do you want to do instead?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m just seventeen, I haven’t figured my whole life out yet.”

“Really?”

“What, and you have?”

“Weren’t you paying attention earlier, John Laurens?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t forget you have choices that a lot of us don’t. If I hadn’t been slaving away at school for the last, oh, six years, I wouldn’t even be able to even dream about college.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry. Privilege and all that. Just feeling sorry for myself.”

“That’s allowed,” Alexander says, putting a hand on John’s arm. John starts at the sudden contact. “What’s wrong?”

His heart starts racing again. “Um, no, nothing... I’m just…”

“Nervous?” Alexander asks in a low tone. John isn’t quite sure how they went from chatting about school and family to _this_. 

“No, no, I’m just... “ He flails for an excuse. “Too much rum, I think.”

“Not enough by the looks of it,” Alexander quips. He removes his hand and passes the bottle over. John gulps down two mouthfuls. He feels intoxicated, and the alcohol is the least part of it.

“But if you could do anything?” Alexander returns to their conversation. “No father, no pressure, just John Laurens?”

John stretches his arms out behind him, looking up at the stars. “I really don’t know. It doesn’t matter, though, since I’m going to do what he wants anyway.” 

“Oh. Why?”

“Because he’s my father.”

“Same question - why?” Alexander insists.

John thinks about it. “Maybe it’s different here, I don’t know, but back home it really matters where you come from and where you fit into the bigger picture. Family has an obligation to stick together. My mom died about two years ago and if we didn’t feel some sort of mutual duty to take care of each other, our family would have been ripped apart. And legacy matters. I know I can’t live up to what my father has built, but I can at least _try_ \- or look like I’m trying. And at the very least, I can avoid doing something embarrassing that will reflect badly on all of them.”

Alexander turns to look at him, expression serious. “That’s pretty deep for a - how would you say? - a jock.”

“Now who’s calling who names, nerd?” John jokes.

“Touche.” Alexander studies him again. “It must be hard living with so many expectations. You’re a good guy, John Laurens. I hope things work out for you.”

“Um, thanks.”

“For the moment, though, you should relax. Enjoy your holiday.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There will be enough time to worry about all that other shit soon enough. Right now, focus on what _you_ want.”

As he says this, Alexander shifts and his arm brushes against John’s. This contact somehow feels electric, suggestive rather than incidental, especially given what Alexander was just saying. John might not have a lot of experience with this, but there is no doubt now that Alexander is opening the door to… something.

John takes a leap off a very high mental cliff. If he can’t do this now, in complete privacy, with someone he likes and who seems to like him, then there’s no hope for him at all.

“You know, I guess there are some things I want to do,” John says. He turns to Alexander, raises his arm and slowly, gingerly, runs the back of his hand across Alexander’s cheek. He hopes Alexander doesn’t feel the tremor in it. 

Alexander’s smile turns suggestive. “Yeah?” he says with equal measures of challenge and invitation.

John swallows, shifts his hand to the back of Alexander’s neck, and leans forward. Hesitantly, he presses their lips together in a gentle, chaste kiss.

He feels Alexander exhale and then shift his body forward in order to deepen the kiss, leaning in hungrily. Alexander's hand ghosts across his bicep, then slips down to his ribs. 

John’s stiff and unpracticed lips relax under Alexander’s pliant ones. Alexander smells like sunlight beneath the salt water and rum, and his skin burns with an inner heat as John moves his hand to more firmly hold the back of his head. John feels himself melting against him like an ice cube in the summer sun.

Then Alexander’s hand slips under his shirt and - oh, oh, wait, no, that’s too much…

John pulls back with a start. Alexander opens his eyes, just inches away now, and gives him a look that shoots fire into his veins. But he leans back and takes his hand away.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay, I just-- That was just a bit fast, is all.”

“Hmm. Well, I wasn’t sure,” Alexander says mysteriously.

“Sure of what?” John asks, still breathless.

“If you’d kiss me first."

"Oh."

"I’m glad you did.”

“Me too,” John says. “Might do it again.”

Alexander shrugs, but it’s not dismissive. “I would’ve kissed you eventually,” Alexander says. “But it’s better this way.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I wanted to be sure it was what _you_ wanted.” He takes another drink of rum, and passes the bottle to John.

John swigs it, then says, “I’ve never done that before.”

Alexander looks at him in astonishment. “That was your first kiss?”

“Ah, no… I mean, with a guy.”

“Oh!”

“I’ve always known.” And, even if there was any doubt about it, that kiss confirmed everything. “But… social pressure, you know?”

“I get it. But you’re on a break now, John Laurens - you’re allowed to have a little fun.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t see you suggesting any - ah - forms of entertainment,” John replies, trying to put an edge of suggestion in his tone. He doesn’t know where, or how far, this is going. But right now he’s drunk and rebellious and happy to keep careening forward.

Alexander lowers his gaze, his long lashes casting shadows in the candle light, but his smile is far from demure. He reaches out his hand again, caressing John’s forearm. “You just weren’t asking the right questions.”

“And, how about now?”

“Well, I do wish you’d stop talking and--”

John cuts him off with a second kiss, this one more assured and more insistent. He shifts up onto his knees and pulls Alexander up with him, which improves the angle of the kiss and frees their hands. John senses a modicum of hesitation in Alexander now, so he shows him that it’s okay by wrapping his arms around his skinny waist, pulling him closer.

They break off eventually, to catch their breaths.

Alexander puts his hands on John’s chest, studies him for a moment, then tightens his hands in John’s shirt and pulls him into another kiss. This one is immediately more heated. Alexander parts his lips and John pushes his tongue forward experimentally. His hands slide up Alexander’s back and pull him even closer. The little shifting of their bodies means that Alexander’s hip presses into his groin, and John can’t hold back the moan that erupts from him. He feels Alexander’s lips, still firmly on his, quirk up into a smile.

They kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Their fingers explore the bits of skin that are exposed on their arms, faces, necks. Somehow, despite the fire kindling at the base of his belly, this feels like enough to John for right now. A distant, responsible part of his brain reminds him that he has been drinking, so pushing this any further would be a terrible idea.

Alexander doesn’t seem to share his sentiments towards restraint, and John can feel him vibrating with the effort not to up the ante. But he remains firmly within the silent barriers that John has set.

They kiss, and kiss, and touch, and laugh, and kiss, and John never wants this night to end.

To his surprise, it’s Alexander who reality-checks them.

“It’s late,” he says, his lips swollen and red and divine. “We should head back. I don’t think the Stevenses will be too worried about me, but I’m sure your father must be wondering where you are.”

John sighs. “Yeah. I guess. And it’s a school night.”

“Oh, I don’t have classes on Wednesdays.” John starts to ask why, but Alexander anticipates the question. “Long story, I go to a weird school.”

An idea occurs to him in a flash of inspiration. “So,” he says, suddenly terrified to make this suggestion in case Alexander laughs him off, but unable to leave without offering it. “My whole family is going on a tour tomorrow but I can come up with a way to get out of it. Does that mean we could meet up, if we’re both free?”

Alexander looks uncertain as he replies, and John’s heart sinks. “I have work in the afternoon. And other stuff to do before then.” Then Alexander’s face softens. “But I guess I could carve out a few hours. Did you have something in mind? Other than the obvious.”

“Hey, maybe I can come over to your place.”

“No.” Alexander’s reply is neutral but firm. “But I could come to you? I know where you live.”

John smiles. “Yeah, okay. You can get a taste of resort life. It’s pretty boring.”

“So you rich people keep telling me.”

They pack up the candles and the books and the empties and walk back together; close but not touching, comfortable but not talking. When they arrive back at the resort, the garishness of the artificial lights hurts John’s eyes.

“Tomorrow, then,” John says.

“Tomorrow.” Alexander leans forward and gives him a ghost of a kiss, too quick really for anyone to see. Then he turns and walks off down the beach, and a little of the light in John’s life goes with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: A small homophobic slur uttered by a shitty pre-teen.

“John was fingering a girl last night,” Harry says, all spite, around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. 

Jemmy looks up, scandalised. John cuffs Harry hard on the shoulder. 

The rest of the Laurens family - sitting around a big table in the resort restaurant, eating breakfast - doesn’t bother to react. 

Henry doesn’t even look up from buttering his bread. “Language, Harry. Jack, don’t hit your brother.”

“He _was_ ,” Harry insists.

“That’s a lie,” John bites back, trying to keep his temper. He’s hungover as fuck from last night, but he can’t admit it without getting into a world of trouble.

“I saw it!”

“You didn’t see shit.”

“Oh yeah? Then where did you go last night? Just walking around under the moonlight writing faggy poetry?”

“Shut up,” John growls.

“Boys!” Henry admonishes. They both fall silent but glower at each other across the table. “Now, Jack is old enough to go out by himself if he chooses. Though I do hope you are being careful not to get… entangled with any of the locals.”

Martha snickers into her juice.

John’s neck flushes. “Ugh, dad, there’s no girl. Harry’s just making things up.” He figures this isn’t _technically_ a lie. 

Harry kicks his shin under the table. John almost jumps up from his chair to smack him, but swallows down his anger. He needs to make sure not to piss Henry off if he’s going to agree to letting him stay behind today. Harry sticks his tongue out at him tauntingly when Henry looks away. John decides the best thing he can do is just to ignore him.

Jemmy is still looking at him, wide-eyed and suspicious. John smiles and rolls his eyes, showing just what he thinks of Harry’s accusation. Jemmy frowns, clearly torn between his fraternal loyalties, but the accusatory look melts a little.

Mary Eleanor is smearing yoghurt and fruit on her face. The sight makes John’s stomach lurch. He pushes away his half-eaten omelette.

“Now, we have a full itinerary for the day,” Henry is saying. “The car will be here in, oh, forty minutes. I hope you’ve all packed?”

There is a subdued groan from the rest of the table.

“Actually,” John says, trying to sound serious and grown up. His whole _life_ is riding on getting this right. “If it would be all right, I was wondering if I could stay here and spend the day going over some of that reading for school? Make sure I’m getting ahead, like you suggested.”

Henry looks up, surprised but not displeased. “Are you sure, Jack? You’ll miss the sights.”

“Yes, sir.” Nice, he thinks - Henry will like that. “I’d like to take advantage of the peace and quiet.”

“Well, of course, Jack, that’s very responsible of you.”

“He just wants to go bone that chick!” Harry protests, raising his voice, no doubt jealous that John has found a way out of the dreaded outing. 

“Dad, tell him to stop that,” John says.

“Harry, don’t tease your brother. Jack is far too busy with his studies to be worried about girls right now.” Henry pats John’s hand proudly.

Martha chokes on her croissant. John can’t glare at her from this angle, but he grinds his heel into the side of her foot. She kicks him off with her other leg and maintains her detached expression.

***

They head back to their suite and everyone except John bustles around, getting ready. Martha corners him in his room, where he’s lying with his arm over his eyes, trying to will away his headache. She closes the door quietly.

“What are you up to, John?”

He peeks out from under his arm and rolls his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Today? You’re not actually going to study.”

“I am.”

“No. You’re not.”

“I _am_.”

“Oh yeah?” She strolls over to his suitcase and nudges the lid open with her foot. “Hard to study when you didn’t pack any books.”

He twists his surprise at being discovered into indignation. “How _dare_ you go through my stuff? That’s private!” He sits up, reaches over and slams the lid back down. 

She steps away with a smirk and shrugs. "You were out late and I got bored. You left me alone with _them_. So it's only fair."

"Don’t do it again."

“Where did you go?”

“What?”

“Ughh, John! Last night.”

“God, don’t you start too.”

“You can trust me,” she protests.

“Clearly not,” John says, sitting up with a pained sigh and looking pointedly over at his suitcase.

“So, _are_ you going to see someone today?”

John rolls his eyes. “There’s no fucking girl, I don’t know where Harry dreamt that up from,” he says, his aching head amplifying the annoyance in his voice.

“I didn’t say anything about a girl.”

John turns to her with alarm, though he fights to hide it. “What are you talking about?” His heart is racing. Does Martha _know_?

She shrugs and meanders through the room, hands in her shorts pockets. “I dunno. You’re just acting weird. You didn’t eat any dinner and you hardly touched your breakfast. You’re not on drugs, are you?”

John lets out a derisive laugh. “If I was on drugs, I wouldn’t feel so fucking awful all the time.”

She shrugs. “Depends on the drugs, doesn’t it?”

How does she know anything about that, John wonders.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he says.

“Ugh, I’m not _worried_ , I don’t _actually_ care,” she protests with an exaggerated sigh.

Then Henry calls from the main part of the suite that it’s time to go, and Martha turns to leave. As she reaches the door, she says, without turning back, “Just be careful, okay? Whatever it is. Don’t get into trouble.”

John smiles. “I won’t. Promise.”

***

The suite finally empties, and the quiet rings in John’s ears.

He slips into Henry’s room - the discomfort almost as acute as entering his father’s bedroom back home - and rummages in his ensuite for some painkillers. He finds something in a prescription bottle that looks like it will do the trick, and swallows two along with some water from the tap. 

He slouches back into the lounge and flops dramatically onto a couch, then immediately regrets the jolt to his head and stomach. He tries to keep perfectly still while the nausea slowly, slowly ebbs.

He needs to get up and get ready, since it’s almost time to--

John realises with an icy flush that they didn’t actually make a specific plan. Other than meeting at the resort and Alexander having work that afternoon, there’s no further clue about when he’ll show up - or _if_. Shit.

It’s just after ten. It’s possible that Alexander could be here already, so he hoists himself up and heads down to the beach.

And, indeed, Alexander _is_ there, standing and talking animatedly to two girls in bikinis. He’s waving his hands dramatically, and the girls giggle and smile in response. One of them tucks her hair behind an ear; the other one puts a hand on his arm, and Alexander gives her a big, charming smile. 

An irrational jealousy comes over John, until he gets close enough for Alexander to spot him and redirect that beautiful smile to him. It turns warm and genuine, crinkling his eyes. The girls trot away, giggling. 

“Good morning,” Alexander says.

“Hey.”

John yearns to take his hand, but even though his whole family is miles away, it still feels like too much of a risk. 

“So, we didn’t actually make a time to meet up, I realised - hope this is not too early. Is your family gone already?”

“Yeah, the coast is clear.” He leads the way up the path to the resort area, squinting in the bright sun.

As soon as John and Alexander step onto the resort grounds, a security guard materialises and raises a hand. “Excuse me,” he says in a thick accent. “Hotel guests only.”

“But he’s _my_ guest,” John protests. “And I’m staying here.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard says, not really sounding it.

Then Alexander walks up, leans in to the security guard and says something quietly to him; John can’t make out the words, so he suspects it must be in the local creole. The man frowns but nods, giving them a disapproving look. Alexander turns back to John and winks.

“Let’s go.”

“What did you tell him?”

Alexander grins mysteriously. “It’s a secret.”

“Alexander…”

Alexander stretches out his hand. John stares at it for a second, then takes it. Fuck it. So what if someone sees? His neck starts to burn.

“Don’t stress so much, John! Now show me what this resort business is all about.”

They’re standing on the landing between the beach and the resort proper, which is built to be open to the elements for the most part.

“Well, uh, this is the pool area,” John says.

Alexander gives him a bemused look. “Yeah. Figured that one out all by myself.”

“Do you wanna go for a swim? It’s nothing special.”

“Nah, I’m good. Besides, I don’t have a towel.”

“Oh, you can just get one at the desk,” John says.

Alexander looks at him curiously. “What, like free towels?”

“You have to give them back, but - yeah. You can take as many as you need.”

“Huh.”

John leads Alexander around the rest of the grounds, feeling a bit like a tour guide as he points out all the amenities. Alexander is fascinated by a lot of things that seem pretty mundane to John, but he quickly starts to enjoy experiencing the place through Alexander’s fresh eyes. 

Alexander comments on the way the staff constantly walk around sweeping stray leaves and flowers off the paths - _what a waste of time, the flowers aren’t hurting anyone_ \- the prices at the spa - _fuck, that’s a term of school fees for a ninety-minute massage!_ \- the complementary jugs of flavoured water, which he helps himself to and then makes a face after taking a sip - the aquarobics class - _come on, that’s not real exercise_ \- and on and on. He drags John into every nook and cranny and asks questions about everything, keeping a firm hold on his hand all the while.

They stop in front of the notice board.

“The weather report’s wrong,” Alexander says.

“What?”

“Yeah. It’s not going to rain tomorrow. Bullshit.”

John laughs. “Okay.”

“You’ll see. And what’s this? Why are they doing a whole pancake thing today? Pancakes aren’t West Indian.”

“I dunno. That just seems to be a standard resort thing.” John’s stomach growls - he hasn’t eaten properly in almost a day. And whether it’s the painkillers or the company, he’s feeling much better already. “It’s just starting now, wanna go check it out?”

Alexander looks skeptical but lets himself be led over to the garish pancake cart, which has been parked in an idyllic spot on the pristine lawn underneath some palm trees. John goes over and orders two - one with chocolate, the other with coconut whipped cream. He takes them over to where Alexander is sitting on the lawn, his legs stretched out, admiring the view.

“I’ll pay you back,” Alexander says right away.

“Don’t be silly. It’s free.”

Alexander looks taken aback. “What do you mean, free?”

John holds up his arm to show the wristband he’s wearing, which indicates that he’s on full board. “It’s like - when you book, you can decide upfront if you want the basic package or the full thing. So I guess it’s not _free_ , but it’s all already paid for.”

Alexander still looks skeptical, but he grabs the chocolate pancake and takes a bite.

“Well?” John asks.

“It’s good. For a free pancake.”

John laughs. “You’re terrible.”

“I need to learn how to take stuff like this for granted, for when I’m rich and famous.”

“And president of the United States.”

“And that.”

They finish their pancakes in silence.

“You have cream on your face,” Alexander says.

John gives him a coy smile. “Wipe it off for me?”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “We’re not in a romantic movie, John Laurens. Wipe your own damn face.”

John laughs, but he does. “Wanna come upstairs and see our suite? It’s pretty crazy.”

“You sure that’s okay?”

John shrugs. “Nobody’s there, and it’s not like anyone will find out. Come on.” He stands and offers his hand to Alexander to pull him up. Alexander stands, and doesn’t let go.

“All right,” he agrees, sounding as though he is steeling himself. “Show me this so-called suite.”

They slip up the stairs and into the room. John unlocks the door with his card and holds it open so Alexander can go in ahead of him. Feeling just a little paranoid, he glances around, but there’s no one else there to see them.

“Woah,” Alexander says, looking around, sounding genuinely impressed. “Do you just keep the aircon running all day?”

“Well, it switches off if you take out the keycard,” John explains, slipping the card out and then back in to demonstrate. “But otherwise, yeah.”

“Fancy.”

Alexander walks in a big circle, running his hands over the furniture and fittings. He studies odd things - the room service menu, the aircon remote, the wooden box filled with complimentary tea and coffee packets, the evacuation instructions. He peers into all of the bedrooms in turn.

“No guesses which is your room,” he says with a smirk. “Hey, isn’t there supposed to be a minibar in these places?”

“There is, but… I’m not supposed to drink.”

“I thought it was all free?”

“It is. But they come in and make a note of what they need to restock. My dad would kill me.”

“Hmm.” Alexander runs his hands over the floral wallpaper. Thinking about Henry suddenly makes John feel nervous, so he gestures towards his room. 

He closes the door once they’re both inside. Alexander goes to the window and peers out from behind the lace curtain. 

“It’s nice,” he says.

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

Alexander breaths a laugh. “If any of this is normal to you, you have no idea.”

Instead of answering, John steps up and wraps his arms around Alexander’s waist from behind. He pulls out Alexander’s hair tie, drops it on the table, and kisses the back of his neck lightly. Alexander leans into him. He’s been aching for this contact all morning and the warm press of Alexander’s back is both comforting and arousing. 

“It’s much better with you here.”

“Mmm.”

Alexander turns in his arms and kisses him, slow and easy and sensual. Still feeling a little paranoid and exposed next to the window, John walks them slowly back into the middle of the room. 

“So, what now?” Alexander asks softly as he pulls back from the kiss. The words ghost over John’s lips. 

“Before we go on,” John says, a little embarrassed, “I need you to teach me something about AP civics.”

“What? Why?”

“I told my dad I’d spend the day studying. In case he asks.”

Alexander laughs. “You want me to teach you something about your own country? Seriously, did you bring me here for my body or just my brain?”

“Both!” John protests.

Alexander extricates himself and sits down on the bed. John sits down next to him. The air pulses with anticipation.

“Ooh, this is soft. Okay. Here’s one for you. Did you know that citizens of the US territories are _actually_ US citizens too, but that they can’t vote for the president and they don’t have representation in the senate? But, get this, since they are US citizens, they can _run_ for president.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So that means you could actually--”

“Yup.”

“Huh. Cool. I mean, not cool about the lack of voting rights, but, you know.”

Alexander laughs wryly. “It’s a fucked-up system. And US citizens can vote if they move overseas _except_ if they move to a territory.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nope.” A pause. “Wow, this really is one fucking comfortable bed.”

Alexander leans back and stretches out on the bed next to him, humming contentedly as he runs his hands over the duvet. He reaches his arms above his head, which hikes up his shirt and reveals a smooth caramel sliver of belly. 

John itches to touch it, so he lifts his hand and grazes his fingers over the exposed skin gently. Alexander’s hum turns into a purr. Goosebumps erupt in the wake of John’s fingers, and he chases them along Alexander’s waist and under his shirt to his ribcage.

Alexander reaches up and tugs on his collar, urging him closer. John turns, then shifts up onto the bed and kneels over Alexander’s hips. He leans down on his straightened arms so that he’s on all-fours, his face hovering above Alexander’s, hair coming loose around them. The sun, salt and humidity have turned his curls into a frizzy mess, he notes, the mundane thought incongruous in the otherwise incredibly thick and nerve-wracking atmosphere.

“Mmm,” Alexander says, “You’re hot.” He reaches out and tugs at a strand of hair.

“Stop that.” John catches Alexander’s hand and pins it back to the mattress next to his head. When Alexander tries to pull it away experimentally, the little struggling motion floods John’s brain with so much arousal that he makes a breathless ‘oh’ sound.

Alexander gives him a teasing smile and reaches up with his other hand, playfully pulling at another lock. “Make me.”

John grabs the other wrist and pins it, too, leaving Alexander splayed below him, his hair fanning out around him, his eyes blistering with arousal. Alexander strains up towards him, but with both of his arms held down, he can’t get high up enough to kiss. He flops back and grunts in frustration.

John is grinning at him smugly, so focused on studying the contours of his face and trying to figure out _what the fuck to do next_ that he misses when Alexander twists and shifts below him - and suddenly both of his legs are wrapped around John’s lower back and Alexander is _pushing_ his hips up.

John’s eyes shoot wide open and he groans. Alexander’s mouth curves up sensually.

“Are you just going to tease me all day, John Laurens? Or are you finally going to fuck me?”

Oh _god_.

He’s not prepared for _that_.

No, this is _too much_. He can’t he can’t he _can’t_ \--

John panics. 

Like he’s just been electrocuted, he pushes himself off Alexander and shifts away, breathing hard. 

Alexander lifts himself up onto his elbows, his cheeks red and his expression unreadable. “What’s wrong?” he says. He sounds exasperated and confused.

John can barely force out words. “You-- I-- I just can’t-- Not--”

“What? Why not?” When John just stares back at him, Alexander sits up all the way. “John, you’re sending some pretty fucking mixed signals here. I mean, why did you spend all day hitting on me, then bring me here, to your room - to your _bed_ \- if you didn’t want to…?”

John cringes. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. I just-- I have no idea what I’m trying to do here,” he admits.

“Well, then, maybe you can figure it out on your _own_ time,” Alexander growls. The air is suddenly frigid between them. John can see the flush creeping down Alexander’s neck, and he realises with a fresh stab of guilt that he’s humiliated _him_ too. Alexander stands up and pats his clothes back into place. “I need to go,” he says coldly.

“Alexander, wait, please!”

“Wait for what, John? It’s _all_ waiting with you!” Alexander snaps. Then he sighs and lowers his tone. “Ugh, sorry. I’m not going to pressure you into anything, okay? I’m not an asshole. But I don’t like being messed around.”

“I didn’t mean to--”

“Yeah, yeah. But maybe you should pay a bit more attention to what you’re doing, John. You can’t just stumble through life from one adventure to the next without knowing what you actually want out of it. Your little journey of self-discovery is going to leave collateral damage.”

John can’t really say anything in his defence. Alexander is completely right.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“ _Me_?” Alexander scoffs, sounding indignant. “I’m fucking _fine_ , John.”

The uncomfortable, laden silence stretches between them.

“Well, this is all fucking awkward and awful now, so I’m going to go. No hard feelings, okay?” Alexander barks a laugh. “Well, except for, you know.”

John gives a mirthless laugh in response.

“Look. I still think you’re a good guy. Just - figure your shit out, okay? Like I said before, I do hope things work out for you. But maybe you need to put some of the work in, too.”

And Alexander slips out of his room and his suite and his life forever.

***

He can’t stay there.

John waits ten minutes, then storms out, tears escaping even through his clenched eyelids. He goes out onto the beach and stumbles, half-blind, away, away, away. 

He struggles to breathe between sobs of anger, humiliation and frustration.

His feet take him to the little hidden beach.

He scrambles over the rocks and drops into the sand. The knot at his core is so tight and so big that he can’t even sit up straight.

He hates _everything_. Himself most of all.

***

John returns to the resort late that night, he doesn’t know exactly what time, but the grounds are already dark and abandoned. He enters the suite quietly. The lounge is empty. He tiptoes across to his room, eases the door closed and lets out an exhausted sigh.

A small, sad voice startles him. 

“You promised.”

“Martha? What are you doing here?” John can barely speak through the rawness in his throat.

Martha glares at him across the dark room from where she’s huddled against the wall on his bed. “You promised not to get into trouble.”

John rubs his eyes. Thank god it’s dark enough that she can’t see how red and swollen they are.

“I’m not in trouble,” he says softly.

“You’re lying,” she hisses. 

John sighs and sits down next to her on the bed, reflecting for a second on how different the two people are who have occupied it today.

“Look, it’s hard to explain. I’m just… having a hard time right now,” he whispers. 

“You can’t come apart, John. You’re the only other sane one. I need you or I’ll lose _my_ mind too.”

The loneliness in Martha’s voice is such a direct echo of his own that recognising this mutual deficit actually makes him feel better.

“Wanna stay here tonight?” he offers. Martha pouts. “I could use the company.”

“Okay.”

They lie down next to each other. John is worn out on every level but there’s no hope of sleeping with the noise in his brain.

“So, _did_ you go see a girl?” Martha asks.

“No,” John says. She makes a frustrated grumble and he hears her inhale to speak, but he rolls the dice and adds, “A boy.”

She bolts up, wide eyes glued to his face.

“What?” she hisses, but it’s a sound of surprise rather than revulsion. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Don’t say fuck, you’re just a kid.”

“John.” Her voice is urgent, intent. “Are you _fucking serious_?”

“Yeah.”

She laughs a quiet, manic laugh. “Shit, no wonder you’ve been acting so weird. Does that mean you’re, you know…?”

“Gay?” he suggests. “Yup.”

The world doesn’t end. The knot in his chest loosens a little. 

“Okay.” Then, a moment later, “Cool.”

“But you have to swear to me that you won’t tell--”

“Jesus christ in heaven, John, of course not. I’m not _stupid_. Does anyone else know?”

“No.”

“Wow. Okay.” She digests this. He can almost hear the cogs turning. “So who was he?”

John stares at the dark ceiling, willing the tears back. “Just some guy.”

“Someone from the hotel? Or…?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Okay. But something went wrong.”

John wants to say, _yes, I was born, and it was all downhill from there_ , but he doesn’t. “We had a fight. It was my fault, mostly.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Look. It’s late. I’m exhausted. Can we talk about this some other time?”

“Jo-o-o-ohn,” Martha whines, but she lays down again. “Is it okay if I…?” She shifts forward to indicate she wants to get closer.

“Come here,” John says fondly, and lifts his arm so that she can scoot under it and lay her head on his shoulder, facing him. He kisses the crown of her head. “Thank you. It feels really good to tell someone.”

He feels her nod. The knot loosens just a little more.

***

In the morning, Martha is gone, but Alexander’s discarded hair tie glares at him accusingly from the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm breaking my own heart here, people.
> 
> Leave your curses, howls of agony and pleas for mercy in the comments.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collisions ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got so long that I had to split it in two. This is the first part. The second half will be posted later today.
> 
> \---
> 
> Alexander speaks some Haitian Creole in this chapter (if you speak French, you might be able to pick out some of the words):
> 
> “Fè cho, eh, yon pitit mwen?” > “It’s hot, eh, my little one?”  
> “Frè ou se yon enbesil.” > “Your brother is an idiot.”

John is so utterly exhausted by his ordeal that Thursday passes in a numb, sedate fog. 

He eats too much at breakfast and it makes him feel sluggish all day, most of which he spends listening to music on a deckchair by the pool - unable to stand the silence of his room, the bustle of the suite or being around all the things Alexander touched. 

It doesn’t rain. The perfect weather taunts him. 

Martha has enough good sense to give him space. 

That night, he steals three bottles from the minibar, but they are all sharp and bitter and nothing like the sweet rum Alexander gave him. At least the alcohol helps him sleep.

***

On Friday, better rested, the desperate need to explain himself to Alexander consumes him. 

And more than that, he so badly wants a do-over. Now, away from the heat of the moment, benefitting from hours spent torturing himself with replays of the painfully embarrassing encounter in his head, he can’t begin to understand why he freaked out. 

He likes Alexander, trusts him, feels safe and uninhibited around him. All the things you’re meant to make sure of before getting intimate. 

Plenty of kids in his class have had sex already (or claim to have, at least); if anything, it’s a badge of pride and maturity. Alexander clearly has, and seems to think it isn’t really a big deal. It’s just sex! 

But in another way it isn’t _just_ sex. It’s the closure of some undefined door on innocence.

Or maybe he’s spent too much time in church, he wonders cynically.

Yes, it’s clear that _Alexander_ isn’t the problem here.

But this is all pointless hypothesising. John can talk to the Alexander in his head as much as he likes, but it’s not really going to ease his bone-deep regret. And he has no way to get in contact. He realises he doesn’t actually know anything concrete about him - all the details about home and work and school were so vague, or so fleeting, that they paint no useful sketches. John has long since forgotten the name of Alexander’s foster family, and he suspects sullenly that Alexander dropped even _that_ meagre detail by accident.

This lack of information feels incongruous next to the deeply personal _sense_ he has of Alexander. He _knows_ him. Just not anything _about_ him.

He considers writing Alexander some sort of letter - but almost immediately discards the idea. For one thing, if anyone else found it, he could just as well put a gun to his head right then and there, ifthe shame didn’t kill him first; for another, if he can’t even _find_ Alexander, then he sure as fuck can’t post him a letter.

So instead of wallowing further in this pointless morass, he relents to Martha’s meaningful glares and prods and bored moans and takes her out on a little catamaran, just the two of them. She tells him how thrilled she is to finally have an actually cool brother - as though his sexuality is some sort of rare collectible for her set - and pesters him with a million questions. John talks a lot but says very little. He doesn’t mention Alexander except in the most oblique terms. 

See, he’s learning.

***

On Saturday, the day before their return flight, Henry bundles them all into the car again for a trip to the nearby town for some shopping. 

John would much rather do his own thing (well, he’d much rather mope in his room, curtains drawn), but he can’t come up with any sort of new excuse to avoid this trip. 

Besides, he is morbidly curious to see the area where Alexander lives, perhaps to catch a glimpse of something private and revealing that would help him understand the strange boy who so briefly fluttered into his life.

He refuses to admit that he both dreads and yearns to catch a glimpse of Alexander himself. The fact that the likelihood of this is incredibly slim is no comfort.

It’s not a long drive - nowhere really is on St Croix, even though it can be slow going given the state of the road and the traffic - and when they arrive in the town centre it’s already bustling. Locals are running their weekend errands and tourists are milling around, getting in their way. It’s loud, hot, chaotic, and everything smells intense - the street food, the ocean air, the people and animals. 

Henry tells their driver to pull over into a parking lot and they all spill out onto the street. 

“Stick together now,” Henry instructs. “If you get lost, meet back here at the car.”

Harry immediately glues himself to Henry’s side - the ingratiating little shit - and Martha takes one look at the mass of people and hoists Mary Eleanor onto her hip with a long-suffering ‘oof’. Jemmy walks ahead of the pack, wide-eyed, and John brings up the rear. 

He studies the streets carefully, his eyes hunting for any potential Alexander-related landmarks. He doesn’t see any schools, and the homes don’t have name plates (not that he remembers the family name, gah). The town centre is poorly maintained - potholed, grimy and unkempt, with greenery erupting out of every crack in the concrete. Powerlines tangle in haphazard nests on rickety poles, and it looks like one strong gust is all it would take to bring them down. The pervasive tropical smell of rotting things hangs in the air. There are a few American chain stores, mostly fast food outlets, but the majority of the shops are dingy and full of dusty-looking souvenirs or sad groceries.

Only the lively bustle elevates it to anything other than depressing. 

What must it be like, John wonders, to grow up in a place like this? He can’t imagine it, not really. The poverty is grindingly, relentlessly visible in every person he looks at. Beyond that, there’s no variety, no signs of real culture or intellectual life, no links to a broader, richer outside world - and no, he doesn’t count the KFC as an exemplar of this. 

And perhaps it wouldn’t be so bleak if the locals could fully benefit from the incredible natural surroundings that St Croix offers. But ever since the encounter with the security guard, John has started noticing that the best parts are jealously guarded for the tourists. The idyllic beaches and coastlines are dominated by big resorts that enact tireless profiling on their grounds. Locals fishing, selling or even walking too close are hurried away.

How hard - how much _harder_ \- did Alexander have to work for everything he’s made of himself in circumstances like this? How does he speak about Harvard and voting rights and popular culture and all the rest like it’s normal to him, the same way it is for John? 

It dawns on John that Alexander only has these things because he’s _taken_ them, clawed and fought and grasped for every little thing. And even despite this hurdle, Alexander knows more about _everything_ than he does - not to mention that he has formed deeper and better-informed perspectives on things. The _only_ thing holding Alexander back is the circumstance that landed him here, amid the mud and peeling paint and hard-knock faces.

Suddenly, with a heaviness in his belly, John feels like he’s wasted every moment and opportunity and gift of privilege he’s ever received. Ignorant. Spoiled.

Well, shit - John was hoping for some insights, but this is all just depressing.

He is shaken from his train of thought by his father’s voice.

“Ah, here it is,” Henry says, pointing to one of the largest shop fronts on the street. It’s an antique store, by the look of the signage outside. This explains Henry’s eagerness to come to this part of town, John realises. More sad old junk for his study.

The Laurenses dash across the road, dodging the completely unregulated traffic, and step into the cool, dim interior.

John figures it must have been an old warehouse, because the interior space is dark and vast, almost church-like. The main floor is laid out with all sorts of old-looking furniture and framed works of art, and the walls are covered in shelves bearing domestic and military knick-knacks. There’s a mezzanine with further piles of dimly-lit goods.

Harry and Jemmy immediately run over to the display of antique sabers, oohing and ahhing and daring each other to touch them.

John’s eyes adjust to the dimness as he takes it all in. Thank god it’s at least a few degrees cooler in here.

He knows Henry will take ages in a place like this, so he pans his eyes across the room for anything interesting to distract him. 

He stops dead, and his ribcage clenches around his lungs.

Sitting behind the counter is Alexander. 

Oh fuck!

Alexander! 

He’s dressed neatly in a white shirt and dark slacks with hair pulled back, sitting with his head bent low over one of the textbooks John gave him. He’s completely focused and chewing intently on his lip as he scribbles pencil notes in the margin.

Oh god… 

No, no, breathe, it’s not too late to hide.

But. 

Shit! John can’t let Henry see the book - and Henry is making a beeline for the counter.

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he clears his throat loudly.

Alexander looks up. Their eyes meet. 

In a second, an entire novel of meaning crosses Alexander’s face. John sees him go from welcoming to surprised to something less warm and certain. John does _not_ like the strange smile that starts when Alexander’s eyes flicker to the others and he quickly pieces together who all these people are.

But thankfully, he also closes the book and slips it quietly out of sight behind the counter. This action gives John heart, because if Alexander wanted to ruin him, that book is all the evidence he needs.

But the intent, calculating look on Alexander’s face remains firmly in place. John tries to send him a silent telepathic message. 

_Be careful! Please!_

Almost as if in response, Alexander’s grin turns more feral.

He hops off his chair and strolls over to Henry, friendly and nonchalant.

“Welcome, sir,” Alexander says, hamming up his accent and giving a little bow. “May I assist with anything?”

Henry turns, looks down his nose at Alexander, and gives him a quick appraisal - John can see the verdict is not flattering, by the way Henry’s lips pull tight. Alexander’s smile only brightens as he looks up at Henry expectantly.

John is dying - he must be, because how can he possibly stay alive when his heart is thudding this hard and fighting to tear free? A cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. _Something terrible is about to happen._ He’s rooted to the spot; can’t take his eyes off this impending catastrophe; unable to pretend anything other than macabre fascination. 

“Oh, um--” Henry looks around the room. “I was hoping to speak to the owner?”

Alexander gives him a contrite look. “I’m so sorry, sir, Mr Stevens is out just at the moment. But let me assure you, I’d be able to help with anything you need. I am at your disposal.”

Henry looks visibly disappointed, but resigns himself. “Well then, I’m looking for some specific Danish and German items from the early colonial period. Coins, books, medals - things like that.”

“Of course!” Alexander says with a flourish. “Right this way - we have an extensive collection that would be the envy of any numismatist. The _Westindiske_ _daler_ , as I am sure you know, was introduced in 1849 and we have many fine exemplars, but a knowledgeable buyer such as yourself is well aware that earlier _rigsdaler_ is more interesting - and more valuable as a collector’s piece.”

“Ah, yes, quite,” Henry says, trailing behind Alexander and carefully schooling his expression. John can see his internal struggle to reconcile his preliminary judgement of _scruffy brown boy_ with this unexpected wellspring of expertise.

Alexander leans over a glass-fronted cabinet. “Now, most people like the look of the twenty _skilling_ coin, but really it’s the twenty-four that’s much rarer and therefore a much better investment.”

Henry peers down, nodding. “Hmm, yes, very good.”

John’s laser-beam attention is broken when Martha bumps into him, on purpose. 

“Jeez, move, John,” she grumbles. 

He just stares at her blankly. His brain is short-circuiting. 

“What’s your problem?” Martha asks. “Other than being too hot and bored and-- Ugh.” Martha disentangles Mary Eleanor’s fingers from her sleeve and thrusts her at John, who catches her instinctively before she can fall. “You carry her for a bit. She’s getting fat.”

John sighs and hoists Mary Eleanor up onto his hip, and she immediately grips on tightly to his collar with her clammy fingers, crumpling the neat fabric. “Don’t you want to walk around for a bit, Polly?” he asks her.

“She can’t, she’ll just break stuff,” Martha interjects. She’s eyeing some bowls and teacups with distaste. “Do we really need any more of this old crap around the house?” she mutters, low enough that only John can hear.

He sighs again and shifts his little sister so that she’s more comfortably settled against his side. Now that he’s looked away, he can’t bear to go back to watching Alexander - especially not like this, surrounded by his family, playing nursemaid to a little girl who’s probably minutes away from a heat-induced tantrum.

Alexander’s voice carries across the room regardless. Relentless.

“You have quite the eye, sir! The stamps, of course, are the hidden treasures. If you’ll just follow me over here, I have something I must show you. The packet service ran from St Thomas in the 1850s, of course, but not everyone knows that there were some rare stamps issued right here on St Croix as well.” And on and on he goes, shuttling Henry from one corner of the store to the other, deluging him with historical factoids and flattery.

When John does sneak glances up, he sees that Henry’s bearing has changed, and he’s now engaging openly and with considerable interest. Alexander charms him so transparently, but that doesn’t seem to matter. They spend a good twenty minutes looking around, conversing in increasingly friendly and familiar tones. John is incredibly impressed, and can now easily imagine Alexander walking the halls of government, wrapping each and every person there around his finger.

Wait. Did Alexander do this to him, too? Push all the right buttons to get John to do what he wanted?

He stares at Alexander’s face - Alexander is listening to Henry with a benign smile as he prattles on - and tries to figure out if there’s any truth to this paranoid notion. Now, here, his earlier certainty that he _knows_ Alexander on some deeper emotional level is quickly eroding. He becomes even less confident in his judgement when Alexander shoots John a pointed look and casually but oh-so-deliberately puts his hand on Henry’s elbow to steer him over to another display. John blanches, but Henry doesn’t notice or react, except to allow himself to be guided.

“Martha!” Henry calls, waving a hand without looking up. “Martha, come over here, take a look.”

Martha turns from the creepy doll she’s prodding with one finger and gives John an exasperated look, but it changes to one of surprise when she sees the brimming panic that John is barely containing. Confusion turns into understanding, but John gives her a desperate, terrified shake of his head. She walks over, oozing annoyance out of every pore, but John can see that she is studying Alexander with renewed interest.

John’s anxiety must be catching, because he feels Mary Eleanor grow restless just a moment before she lets out a hiccoughing sob, and then a small, sad wail that dissolves into tears. When Alexander looks up towards the noise, John realises that, yes, it is possible to feel even more humiliated that he did before. This particular pit seems to have no bottom.

But there’s softness in Alexander’s gaze, rather than the ridicule he expects. Alexander excuses himself from Henry, vanishes into a side room, then emerges with a damp towel. He strides over to John.

“She’s probably just too warm,” he says kindly. “Set her down for a moment?”

John obeys silently, and they both crouch down, which means there’s now a large cabinet between them and the rest of the room. John seats Mary Eleanor on his bent knee, and Alexander reaches out a gentle hand and wipes a tear from her cheek. 

“Fè cho, eh, yon pitit mwen?” he says, holding the damp cloth to her cheek. John doesn’t understand the words, but there is primal tenderness there. Mary Eleanor stops crying, more from surprise than anything, and she allows Alexander to wipe down her face. “Frè ou se yon enbesil,” he adds with a knowing shake of his head, tone sharper. He swipes the towel down each of her arms, then puts the cold cloth on her head. She studies him with wide eyes.

John is staring at him too. Alexander looks up.

“This is a nice surprise,” Alexander says with a wry smile, tone carefully neutral but his voice low. He moves to stand, but John shoots a hand out and grabs his wrist. He glances around. They are completely hidden behind the cabinet, but if anyone were to come around the corner, they’d see. He needs to be quick.

“Wait,” John murmurs. Alexander looks down at the hand, then back up, eyes narrowed. John feels his face burning. “I want to see you. Tonight. Can you come meet me?”

“What?”

“Please-- I just, I really need to see you.”

“What?” Alexander repeats. “Why?”

“Alexander! Please.”

“Really?” Alexander says, looking skeptical. “After last time…”

“Yes. I know, I’m an idiot. I want to explain. Just... talk. Is that okay?”

Alexander cocks his head. “I’m working until six,” he says. “And I have chores and stuff to do, a report for school--”

“We’re _leaving_ tomorrow. _Please!_ ” John says urgently, aware of how much desperation he puts into that one word. 

Alexander looks down. “Hmm. Well, okay. Can we make it eight?”

“Yes. Whenever.”

“Okay. Same place. The cove. Can you find it yourself?”

John nods, then belatedly realises he’s still holding Alexander’s wrist and lets go. 

Alexander stands up and reverts to a normal volume. “Get her some sugarcane juice, she might be dehydrated.”

“Uh, okay. Sure. Thanks.”

Alexander drifts back over to Henry and Martha. John sees them examining some antique jewellery. They point out a few pieces and Alexander lifts them out carefully, chattering away about their provenance, packaging some pieces and steering them away from others that he says are not really worth the price.

Henry does one final lap of the room. “Have you had a chance to look around, Jack?” he asks.

“Oh, um, yes, a bit.”

“Anything catch your eye?”

John can’t help that his eyes drift to Alexander, who - of course - is watching him inscrutably.

“Uh, I mean, I guess - not really?”

Henry chuckles, pats his shoulder, and continues his circuit. John tries to send Alexander a silent apology, but Alexander is no longer paying attention to him, busy as he is writing out the long and complicated invoice for Henry’s purchases.

At long last, Henry pays, Alexander promises that the items will be delivered to their hotel - “You wouldn’t want to walk around with valuables in this part of town, trust me!” - and they reluctantly head back out onto the sun-baked street. It’s even hotter now.

“Smart boy, that one,” Henry observes once they’re back outside. This is high praise indeed. “Good salesman, too. I’m very pleased with the items I picked up.”

John cringes but tries to hide it behind a bored shrug. 

“We should get something to drink,” he says instead.

“Excellent idea.”

Martha suddenly stops dead, patting her pockets. “Oh, um, I think I dropped my, uh… in the shop… I’ll be right back.”

Pointedly avoiding John’s eyes - and therefore missing his frantic plea of _no, don’t you fucking dare_ \- she turns and jogs back inside.

John feels his stomach drop at the thought of what she’s about to do.

She comes back out a minute later with a benign smile. “Sorted,” she says cheerily. “Someone said something about a drink?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys see each other one last time.

This time, John arrives early. 

He wants to make sure he has the time to settle himself and prepare all the things he wants to say. To apologise. For himself. For Henry. For _Martha_. To explain things. 

He’s surprised when he finds that, half an hour ahead of time, Alexander is already there. He’s lying on his stomach, nose buried in a book in the gathering darkness, legs kicking idly at the sand. He doesn’t hear John arriving, so John takes a moment just to observe him.

Alexander is staring at the book, but after a little while, John realises that he hasn’t actually turned a page or made any notes. Just as John notices this, Alexander lets out a little frustrated groan and drops his forehead against the paper, then twists away from the book to lie on his back. He rubs his eyes and grimaces, and reaches out one hand to slam the book shut. It’s an angry, childish gesture, like the book has let him down somehow.

Alexander sits up, pulls his legs into his chest and drops his head onto his raised knees. His hands tangle in his hair and grip together, and he just sits there, still, huddled, heavy-limbed, the protective pose oozing poorly concealed vulnerability. 

For the first time since they’ve met, John is reminded that Alexander is younger than him.

In a sudden flurry of movement, Alexander picks up his book, stands, shakes off the sand on his pants, and strides quickly towards the exit of the cove. John ducks away to make sure he isn’t seen. But Alexander stops after a few steps and stares at the ground. His mouth pulls into a thoughtful frown and he catches his lower lip between his teeth. He turns back and drops the book onto the sand again. Lets out a heavy sigh.

“Shit,” John hears him say.

John isn’t sure what all this means, but the fact that Alexander looks so out of sorts actually reassures him. Perhaps he wasn’t that wrong, after all? Perhaps Alexander isn’t cynical and manipulative. It seems silly that he thought so, earlier. That he’d doubted.

He can’t risk crouching here much longer, so he backtracks a few steps and approaches again, this time making plenty of noise.

Alexander is standing with his arms crossed. He’s facing away, looking out onto the ocean.

“Alexander?” John says tentatively.

Alexander sighs and drops his head. “John. You’re early.”

“Oh, I can go sit behind a bush if you need some time alone,” John says, trying to make the joke clear from his tone.

“Ha. No, that’s okay.”

John approaches slowly. “Thanks for showing up.”

Alexander makes a pained sound. “I almost didn’t. Sorry. I sort-of expected _you_ not to come.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. Payback?”

“Really?” John laughs. 

“Guess that was a dumb thing to think.”

John is close enough to touch, and he hesitates a moment before he puts his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. He feels a little shudder go through him.

Alexander turns around, grabs both of his hands and gives John a watery smile. 

“I’m really sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have run away like that.”

“What?” John isn’t expecting this. Why is Alexander apologising to _him?_

“John. You were upset and I just, fuck, I just walked out. I promised myself I’d never do that to someone.” He’s cringing. 

“What are you _talking_ about?” John says, incredulous. 

“I should at least have stayed until I could make sure you were okay. Maybe we could have just talked about it then. Saved all this… drama.”

“Oh.” John tries to make his smile look reassuring. “It’s fine, I got over it. Besides, I wanted to see you so I could apologise to _you._ ” Alexander tilts his head questioningly. “You were completely right that I should have made things clearer. I know you said you were fine but I know I hurt you too. And it’s not like I didn’t _want_ to-- Just-- I haven’t really done anything like that before and you were so… so blunt about it. Which is fine! It’s better than my way! Just. Fuck. Am I making any sense?”

“Yes, you adorable virgin,” Alexander says with a bright, tension-releasing laugh.

“Communication is fucking key, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it.”

The uneasiness between them melts away, simple as that. 

They sit down side by side in the sand.

“What did Martha do when she went back in?” John asks. He’s been itching to find out all day.

Alexander’s eyes widen in exaggerated alarm. “Your little sister is fucking scary!”

“Did she say anything?”

“Um. Yeah. I’m not going to repeat her language but the gist of it was, be good to John, or else. You’re lucky to have someone like that in your corner.”

John smiles. “Yeah. Oh, and I’m sorry my dad was so rude to you.”

“Don’t _you_ apologise for him. Besides, do you know how much he spent?”

“I dunno - a few thousand?”

“Twelve thousand. _Twelve_ thousand United States _dollars,_ John. Do you know how much tuition that would cover?” He doesn’t. “I mean, I’m not mad - hell, it’s fantastic, it’s going to pay for a few months of rent and I actually get a commission because the amount’s that high. Just seems a bit unfair someone can drop that sort of cash on a bunch of useless antiques without really thinking about it.”

“Being rich is no excuse for being a dick,” John says, realising the truth of it at the same time as he says the words. 

“Oh, well, I see his kind all the time. The sort of person who thinks we should be grateful for all the wonderful things colonialism brought to our backwards islands.”

John frowns. “Well, I mean, he’s shit, but he’s not-- He’s just old-fashioned.”

“Mmm, yes, I guess racism _is_ a pretty backwards belief system. I’m surprised he didn’t check his pockets as he was leaving,” Alexander mutters.

“He’s _not_ racist,” John insists, not completely sure why he is defending Henry. “I mean, for one, he married my mom and she wasn’t white.”

“Having a brown wife doesn’t make you not-a-racist,” Alexander snaps. “Just like having a gay son doesn’t make you not-a-homophobe.”

John sighs dramatically and drops his head between his knees. Despite his protests, deep down he suspects that Alexander is right about this. But he hates that they are wasting their last precious moments together arguing about this. “Can we _please_ stop talking about my father?”

“Oh?” The note of humour returns to Alexander’s voice. “What do you want to talk about instead?”

And John knows the answer right away, with a certainty that surprises him.

“I don’t want to _talk_ ,” he murmurs, then turns, grabs the side of Alexander’s face and pulls him close. Their lips press together and John feels Alexander smile into the kiss. After a moment, Alexander pulls back just an inch. 

“I thought you said you _just_ wanted to talk,” Alexander teases, breathing the words against John’s lips.

“Screw it. I lied. I want you. All of you.” John leans in, trying to kiss him again.

“Well, shit, John,” Alexander interrupts, pushing him back and looking amused and exasperated all at once. “I _wish_ you'd told me that earlier.”

“Mmm, why?”

Alexander gives him a long-suffering look. “I didn’t bring any stuff with me. Like, condoms and shit. Did _you_?”

_Fuuuck!_

John groans, and then lets out a frantic laugh. He runs a hand through his hair. “Ah. Shit. I mean--” He knows it’s a stupid thing to say, but the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Maybe we can do without?”

Alexander narrows his eyes in alarm. “No, John. No way. What kind of fucked-up sex ed do they have in South Carolina?”

“Actually, you have no idea. Mostly it’s about abstinence and how homosexuality and abortion are evil.” He sighs, unable to believe that, so close to his goal, he’s defeated himself again. “So, what now?”

Alexander laughs and narrows the gap between them again. “We can’t have sex, but there are other options. You haven’t… done anything like this with anyone else before?” 

John shakes his head no. 

Alexander takes a moment to consider.

“Okay. I don’t wanna freak you out again. Are you _sure_ you want to do this? Tonight, I mean. With me. Because I just--” And Alexander makes a frustrated sound, something like ‘nngh’, as he squeezes his eyes closed momentarily and sits back. When his eyes open again, his gaze is like fire. “God, I just want to devour you. I _need_ you to touch me so badly. I’m up for anything, you know that, but I don’t want to push you too far. I'd rather take too little than too much.”

“Hey,” John says softly, feeling an ache in his chest at Alexander's concern. John has never once expressed anything close to a sexual desire. He doesn’t have the vocabulary for this. “You won’t break me. How about we just, ah, keep going - and I’ll say if I want to stop?”

“Promise?”

John can’t help his smile. “Yes.”

“Okay. Good.”

Alexander twines his arms around John’s shoulders and pulls John down on top of him on the sand. They kiss deeply, and John tastes the sweetness of Alexander’s tongue amid the seaspray saltiness of his lips. 

The world recedes.

He feels the fingers of one hand tangle in his hair while the other hand drifts to his shoulders. Alexander’s legs are coming up around the backs of his thighs. For a second, he feels like he’s being ensnared by a jungle vine, their limbs twisted together, pulling him deeper down towards his doom. Then Alexander uses the leverage of his legs to press their hips together and John groans. He pulls back from the kiss but presses their foreheads together, panting. 

“God, you’re just so--” John doesn’t know how to finish that.

Alexander makes a little frustrated noise at the interruption and leans up to kiss the side of John’s jaw, down his neck and across his shoulder. In every spot John discovers new sensations, nerve endings he didn’t know he had. He could almost cry just from this.

There are now two wandering hands on his body... Fingers slipping below the hemline of his shirt and ghosting across the ticklish skin of his waist… Up over the ridges of his ribcage, around to his shoulders and down again… Hesitant at first, then bolder, over and over… 

And, oh lord, Alexander is sucking a mark against his collarbone.

“No, no, stop,” John says. His tone is reluctant, but Alexander immediately pulls back. His hands still. John sees a little defensive frown pull at one corner of his mouth before Alexander can hide it. 

“What’s wrong?” Alexander asks, wary.

“It’s okay, it feels good. Just, you’ll - ah - leave a mark.”

Alexander quirks his head. “That’s the idea.”

“Someone could see…”

Alexander frowns and looks away, just off to one side “But if I don’t, what will you remember me by?”

John barks an incredulous laugh. He pushes back a bit so he can look down at Alexander straight on. “Alexander, I will _never_ forget you. Are you kidding?”

And then something strange happens to Alexander’s face - a look of profound sadness and affection twists his features for a moment. He lets John see it for one beat, two, before a smirk returns to cover it up. John realises that Alexander just gave him something secret and precious. 

“Well then, my work here is done,” Alexander jokes, slipping his hands free and folding them behind his head casually.

“Not even close,” John says fiercely, and slips a hand under Alexander’s right shoulder to telegraph what he’s about to do.

“No, no, don’t!” Alexander protests with a panicked laugh just as John twists them around, switching their positions and pulling Alexander up on top of him. 

He understands the reason for the warning a second later, when a cascade of sand from Alexander’s back and hair rains down on his face. He sputters in surprise at the sand in his eyes, his mouth, down his shirt.

Alexander bursts out laughing. “You really are an idiot,” he says fondly, then, “Wait, not with your hands.” He pulls off his shirt, shakes the sand off, then uses the corner to wipe John’s face clean. John can’t help but grin at his focused expression, visible even in this darkness.

“Guess I have a lot to learn,” he admits.

“You have no idea,” Alexander says.

“Then teach me.” 

John pushes himself up into a sitting position, Alexander straddling his thighs. There’s grit in his mouth, but he doesn’t care. Nothing could diminish this moment, now that he knows he wants this. 

He glides his hands across the perfect expanse of soft, warm skin before him. Alexander shivers slightly and presses his hips forward, grabs John’s face with both hands and pulls him back into a kiss. This one feels more needy. 

John’s heart starts to race with nerves. He takes one of his hands off Alexander’s back and, before he can talk himself out of it, puts it on the side of Alexander’s thigh, just above his knee. He feels something like a shudder go through Alexander’s body. Then he hesitantly slides the hand higher, up the leg of the loose shorts, until his fingertips brush the edge of Alexander’s underwear.

The noise Alexander makes is somewhere between a moan and a growl. His tongue pushes more insistently into John’s mouth and one of the hands slips off his jaw and tugs at the hem of John’s shirt.

He flings himself into the unknown with a sort of manic bliss. He extracts his arm so he can pull his shirt off (this dislodges another little shower of sand), then gets his hands back on Alexander’s hips as quick as he can. He tugs forward and down, and they groan into each other’s mouths at the intimate pressure between them.

Alexander pulls back and gazes down on him with dark, sparkling eyes.

“Mmmm,” Alexander says appraisingly. “You wearing a shirt should be a crime.” John flushes, but he can’t help the pleased grin that spreads on his bruising lips. Alexander’s tone turns petulant. “It’s unfair how hot you are.”

John lets out a surprised laugh. “Funny,” he says, trying to sound both earnest and light, “I can’t take my eyes off you.”

“Flatterer. You’re just trying to get in my pants.”

Instead of responding verbally, John nudges the fingers of his right hand, which is still holding hot and tight onto Alexander’s hip, down past his waistband. Alexander’s mouth immediately curls up into a sultry smile.

“Knew it,” Alexander murmurs. He pushes his hands against John’s shoulders and John gets the hint, falling back on his bent elbows. Alexander leans over him, but instead of kissing his mouth, his nimble lips and tongue trace the corner of his jaw, then he buries his face in John’s hair and inhales deeply. The action is so inexplicably erotic that John makes a strangled sound.

He hears Alexander’s amused huff, then the lips are trailing down his neck again, fingers exploring in their wake, caressing, scratching, pressing. Alexander kisses down to the centre of his chest, then pauses for a moment to rest his forehead right over John’s racing heart. The gesture feels almost sacred, and John is forced to close his eyes against the emotions that well up.

When he opens them again, Alexander is watching him. 

“You okay?”

“God. Yes.” Those eyes, boring into him… “Perfect.” He doesn’t know what he’s describing - his own state, or the sight before him. Both.

Alexander hums eagerly and continues down over the plane of his stomach, his fingers tickling down his ribs and waist. They reach the waistband of his jeans and then glide towards each other, meeting in the middle.

“May I?” Alexander says, a light teasing note.

John just nods. Between the overwhelming pleasure and the tiny kernel of terror at its heart, he can’t form words. Aside from people in his family, no one has ever seen him naked. Alexander has claimed so many of his firsts - with more to go before the night is done, at this rate - but this one feels especially scary.

Alexander carefully undoes the button, pulls the zip down - that little vibration alone is enough to make John shudder - and carefully eases the jeans off his hips and thighs, leaving his underwear on. John kicks the jeans off carefully once they are down past his knees. 

Alexander repositions his legs underneath John’s, so that he is kneeling on the sand and John’s thighs are on top of his. The fever-hot hands glide from his hip bones to his knees and back up again. Alexander is staring down at him like he’s a feast, and John can’t quite believe it.

Alexander catches the back of his left knee and pulls it up, so that John’s leg is bent up into an upside-down V, and places a kiss on the inside of his knee joint. Then he travels up the leg, licking, kissing, nipping gently at the soft skin of his inner thigh, and John starts to tremble so strongly that he’s sure Alexander can feel it.

When Alexander gets almost to the crease of his thigh, he pauses again and looks up - all glittering eyes and pouting lips. John is nearly breathless already, but this is the killing blow. He makes a yearning sound like nothing he has ever heard from his mouth before.

Alexander smiles. “Are you sure you want to keep going?” he asks, and it’s the most absurd question John has _ever_ heard in his life.

“Oh my god, yes, please,” he replies, comically desperate.

“And are you really okay with me being your first?”

And, wow, somehow _this_ question beats the previous one for sheer stupidity.

“It’s-- I--” John doesn’t know how to say, _yes yes yes, you are perfect, this is perfect, I couldn’t imagine anything better, my heart skips every second beat when I look at you_. “I’m positive,” he says, lamely, hollowly, but it seems to be enough of a confirmation.

Alexander smiles and lowers himself back to his task, pulling away the fabric of John’s underwear to kiss the hollow of his hip. He gets both hands on the elastic band and nudges it down in suggestion, so John lifts his hips up and his last piece of his clothing glides off and away.

And it’s - it’s _fine._

God, he’s so hard, so sensitive, that when Alexander’s breath ghosts over him he lets out a groan. He’s not going to last two seconds when--

Fingers encircle the base of his cock. He groans behind clenched teeth and tries not to buck up. 

Then there’s a hot press of tongue on the underside, and John can’t even _see_ properly anymore. Panting, moaning, he falls back, claws at the sand. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep his orgasm at bay. He wants this to last, dammit!

It seems hopeless. The tongue was one thing - new and hot and so _good_ \- but then the lips encircle him and he’s gasping, trembling, groaning. It’s everything and nothing like he imagined. He can’t stop his hips from pushing up. Alexander pulls back for a second and puts his elbow firmly on John’s hip, pressing him down. Then the mouth is back, god, oh god--

He clings on as long as he can, finding depths of restraint he never imagined, and it’s a few minutes or a few centuries - he can’t tell - before the rolling wave is just too strong.

“Wait!” he gasps, “I’m gonna--”

But Alexander just hums an affirmation and sinks down lower, pressing hard into his hip, and this feels like permission. 

So John lets go. The orgasm is the best moment of his life, the most insane and perfect and joyful thing. He loses all bearings for a moment.

Alexander brings him back into the moment when he shifts away to spit onto the sand nearby, then returns to straddle John’s hips and grin down at him.

John is so wrung out that he can barely raise his arm, but he catches Alexander’s hand in his and squeezes. He doesn’t have the right words to express his gratitude, his sense of wonder, but the gesture does the trick because Alexander smiles that private, fond smile down at him.

“C’mere,” John says eventually, his voice hoarse, and tugs Alexander down into a kiss. He worries that it might be gross with the taste of come still in his mouth, but it’s only strange and different, not unpleasant. He feels Alexander sigh into the kiss, and judging by the press against his belly, he knows Alexander is doing his best to restrain his own urges. So he breaks the kiss and says, “Your turn.”

“Only if you want to,” Alexander demurs, and John realises with a sudden fierceness that making Alexander come is going to be even better than climaxing himself.

He pulls a face like he’s uncertain and considering it, and there’s a momentary glint of alarm in Alexander’s eyes, but a second later John's pushing up off the sand and pulling Alexander tight against his chest. He throws all his joy and passion into the kiss, and Alexander responds with an anticipatory sigh that heats him to his core.

John lets his hands wander freely over Alexander’s back, arms, thighs, into his hair, down his ribs - drawing out this moment as much as he can bear. Alexander makes the most incredible little needy sounds, and although he is trembling desperately, John gets the feeling that he likes this teasing. 

Then John dares to graze his hands over other areas, places he's never touched on anyone else. The tight nipples. The delicious swell of Alexander’s ass, still trapped beneath layers of fabric. He puts a hand on the fidgeting hipbone and runs his thumb in an arc down to Alexander's groin. He can feel the tension of the fabric, pulled tight over the gift he finally feels ready to unpack. 

" _Please,_ " Alexander chokes, and John is giddy with the thought that he has been granted such power.

His fingers tremble, too, when he undoes the button and grips either side of the waistband. Alexander lifts up a little and John slides everything off in one motion, maneuvering the clothes around the knee Alexander raises to help him. 

And there Alexander is, present, glorious, skin speckled with sand and head crowned with stars. John is overcome again by his beauty. 

"John," Alexander needles, desperate. "If you keep staring like that, you’re gonna give me a complex."

"You’re _beautiful_ ," he responds. 

"And really fucking hard. Come _on!_ "

John grins at his impatience, and hides his nerves about the next step behind another deep kiss. He slips a trembling hand between them and wraps it around the hot shaft.

Alexander _keens_ into the kiss. Wow.

He does something wrong when he strokes up experimentally, because Alexander shifts away and makes an uncomfortable grunt. 

"Just--" Alexander says, breathing hard. "Pretend it's your own. You don't need to do anything fancy."

If it was someone else, the need for the instruction would have been embarrassing. 

John scoots back a few inches to improve the angle and tries again. 

"That's-- unnngh!" And John doesn’t need words to understand he's hit the spot. 

He starts slowly, marvelling at the feeling of hardness covered in velvety skin, so different from touching himself. But he is quickly distracted from the sensation by the _sounds._

Alexander is so expressive. He moans and huffs and growls and breathes half-coherent praises and pleas. His hips push forward in time with John's strokes and his hands claw at John’s thighs and shoulders, leaving red streaks that John will cherish for as long as they last.

Alexander reaches for John's other hand and raises it to his head. From the way he gestures, John figures out what he wants, so he tangles his fingers in the sweaty hair and tugs.

The utterly obscene sound Alexander makes in response turns John's cheeks bright red.

He does it again, a little harder, and the hands on his thighs dig in desperately. 

John forgets how to breathe. 

With one hand on Alexander’s cock and the other tangled in his hair, John is pulling the whole of his body - from throat to groin - taut as a bowstring.

Heavenly? Glorious? There aren't words to adequately describe the sight. 

Alexander’s noises become more urgent and John increases his pace, pulls a little harder on the hair.

"Oh god, oh god, oh John," Alexander chants.

Then he comes - hot and pulsing and gasping and groaning - onto John's hand and stomach and _yes,_ somehow this _is_ even better.

John untangles his hand from Alexander's hair but leaves it on the back of his head, so that he can pull their foreheads together and listen to Alexander's breathing slow. He doesn’t let go with his other hand, not yet. 

After a moment he feels Alexander smile, and although he can’t see it, he hears the fondness in his voice. "Not bad for a first try."

John laughs and tilts his chin up for a kiss, gentle and chaste. 

"C'mon," Alexander says, getting up onto shaky legs. He leads John into the ocean and washes his belly clean with gentle hands. They splash around in the water for a bit, laughing like giddy children.

Alexander is the first one to get out of the water. He swipes some of the water off himself and finds his discarded clothing, carefully shaking each item free of sand before putting it on. John mirrors his actions, happy not to have to think for himself.

Then it slowly starts to dawn on John that _this is it_. All the joy starts to drip down into a puddle at his feet.

Alexander comes to stand in front of him, and wraps him in a tight hug. John brings his arms up around his back.

He hopes Alexander won’t feel the tremor in them.

"Shame that you're leaving tomorrow," Alexander mumbles into his shoulder. 

"Mmm," John says, not willing to risk whole words, because everything he wants to say is a promise he won't be able to keep. 

“I should go,” Alexander whispers. 

No, no, no, _no,_ John is _not_ going to start _crying_ now, _fuck!_

“Just another minute,” John says, but his voice cracks on the last word, and when Alexander hums in agreement and presses in a little tighter, it breaks open the dam.

Alexander doesn’t comment, make fun of him, crack a joke, or push him away. He just keeps holding on, stroking the nape of John’s neck as he whispers comforting foreign words into his hair.

John can’t master himself for a very long time. 

When he finally manages to slow his breathing, Alexander releases some of the pressure but doesn’t let go. 

“Sorry,” John says through his thick throat. His eyes are burning and still swimming with tears.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Alexander says softly. “It’s okay to be sad.”

He’s not _sad_ \- or not _only_ sad, at least. He doesn’t know the word for this new kind of pain.

“You have to go,” John says.

“Yeah,” Alexander says with a wry little laugh. “I have work in the morning, and chores and all the things I didn’t do because I decided to come here instead.”

The mundanity of life continuing on as normal after tonight feels like a cruel joke.

“Yeah. Okay.” But it really isn’t.

Alexander gives him a sad smile. “It was really nice to meet you, John Laurens. Have a good life. Keep figuring your shit out and you’ll be fine.”

John nods, smiling through fresh tears. “Good luck with the presidential race,” he jokes.

Alexander laughs. “You better vote for me.”

“I will. Promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Alexander sighs, then lets go of him. He nods once, as if in goodbye, then he turns and walks away.

John turns as well. He doesn’t actually want to _see_ Alexander leave.

Then John spots the discarded book, still lying forgotten in the sand. He picks it up.

“Alexander!” he calls, jogging in his direction. “Wait!”

Alexander stops. John reaches him and holds out the book.

“Here, you almost forgot this.”

Alexander looks at it for a moment, and then takes it gingerly. “Thanks,” he whispers. 

John sees something like a wet sparkle on his lashes. 

Alexander nods again without looking up, clutches the book to his chest, and leaves.

***

John stays on the beach until sunrise, sometimes crying, sometimes just breathing.

John hates _everything_. The world. His family. His rotten luck. Himself (a little less, somehow, than he did a week ago).

He doesn’t hate Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, me, ugly-crying in the shower? No, why do you ask?


	6. Epilogue

As St Croix recedes below them into an aquamarine haze, John starts to catalogue his regrets with a growing sense of disappointment.

If only he’d found his courage earlier, how many more wonderful moments could he have shared with Alexander? Sometimes John feels like he’s a million years old, but right now he is all teenager, and he realises belatedly that having adventures - and making mistakes, even - is expected and forgivable. 

He didn’t ask Alexander to meet him more often. 

He didn’t ask enough questions about his life and his dreams and his desires. Never managed to puzzle out how Alexander was a year younger but seemed so much more grown up and experienced.

He never asked for his number or his email (and Alexander told him he has no time for social media anyway).

He didn’t even get a _photo_ of Alexander. 

God, how he yearns impotently for a picture now - or better yet, a little video of a private moment, Alexander smirking into the lens and then biting his lip or calling out a taunt. John would literally give five years off his life if he could turn the plane around right now and go back to capture it.

At least he has the hair tie, which he wears securely around his wrist.

He’ll never forget their encounter, of course not, but he knows he’ll start to lose the details. Even now, he can’t quite remember the exact shade of auburn in Alexander’s sunlit hair - was it really as reddish as he’s picturing, or more of a chestnut brown? Time will wear away the memory of the sweeping eyelashes, the knife-sharp cheekbones, the slender fingers, the salt-flecked lips, his voice - god, that voice, when it’s raised in mirth or pleasure...

It’s not grief, exactly, but John feels such a complete sadness enveloping him that the external world turns grey and distant; it cannot be a fair place if it gives him such a bounty of joy but then cuts it off just as it starts to blossom.

He presses his forehead to the airplane window and sighs. 

The misery compounds when he reflects that it’s unlikely Alexander feels this way about him. After all, Alexander didn’t ask for _his_ number, or offer his own. He shared so little about himself. Was he really just messing around with him - a bit of fun on the side, amid his whirlwind life of duties and ambitions?

Alexander isn’t insecure like John is; if he’d wanted more, he would have asked for it, right?

But he can’t help remembering those fleeting moments of vulnerability when Alexander let him glimpse behind the mask - not his nudity, which John suspects caused him no discomfort, but the little tender glances or touches or moments of silence that communicated their mutual rapport. John understands now why Alexander would so quickly pull up his facade each time; he must have realised, even then, how fleetingly temporary their encounter would be. 

He should learn a thing or two about self-preservation from that.

***

When they return home, John spends three days locked in his room, claiming sickness but really just alternating between crying - bent double, sobbing in the shower to mask the noise - and staring hollowly at the ceiling, his mind blank and exhausted.

But, of course, even this overwhelming cocktail of emotions metabolises. Slowly, his normal life takes root again, and after a few weeks of school and family and tests and friends and sports, his desperate longing for Alexander starts to recede. 

He keeps the hair tie around his wrist for a while, but then he starts to worry that the constant wear will make it snap, so he takes it off and stows it in his desk drawer.

And he does start to forget little things, and then bigger ones, but these losses are not as devastating as he fears. He retains the warmth and fondness, the overall impressions, but the memories edit themselves, becoming more dreamlike and less precise.

And, too soon, he goes whole days without thinking about Alexander, then whole weeks, and then Alexander becomes an occasional stray thought.

And John moves on.

***

It all comes crashing back a year later, when a horrified John watches Hurricane Maria devastate the Caribbean. 

The news is dominated by the escalating tragedies in Puerto Rico, but John digs endlessly for updates on St Croix, a tiny, god-forsaken blip of an island barely visible under the overwhelming radar graphics of the hurricane’s progress. What news comes in at first is sparse and bleak. Communications are lost, and only aerial surveys give a hint of the devastation - the _erasure_ \- of the island’s communities.

John doesn’t sleep, and Alexander’s ghost stalks the dark corners of his bedroom. 

He passes nights in a cold sweat, shivering with fear and frustration.

The news does not improve. There are miraculously few deaths but something like ninety percent of the structures are flattened or damaged. There is no water for two days. The power grid goes down and stays down.

John is consumed by intrusive thoughts of what might have happened to Alexander. He is utterly powerless to help, and he has no way to get in touch and to allay his worries. 

Of course, Alexander will _survive_ this - what little he revealed makes John sure of this - but at what cost? Did the hurricane erase his dreams and prospects? The thought that Alexander’s immense talents may go to waste due to further accidents of circumstance actually nauseates him.

And then there are the dark moments when John is certain Alexander is dead. So certain it’s like a divine premonition. 

He secretly donates some of the money he’s saved up from summer work and birthday gifts - his _spending_ money, he thinks derisively - to the relief missions. He starts a fundraiser at school and learns entire volumes about human apathy and generosity.

The rift between him and Henry cracks open wider when his father refuses to vote in measures that would speed up the recovery effort.

Alexander haunts him every night - sometimes bright and teasing, sometimes broken and bloodied and drowned - but the dreams are always weird and abstract and never once does Alexander speak.

***

When John’s college acceptance letters come in, he hides them in his underwear drawer. It’s only when the one from Columbia arrives that he responds. He accepts the offer without telling Henry. They rage and storm and bluster about it, but eventually John gets his way.

And yes, he admits privately, he hedges all of his future prospects on the bet that Alexander may - perhaps, by further cosmic coincidence, if he's even still _alive_ \- get to Columbia too.

***

In orientation week, John scans every corner of the university campus for a trace of Alexander; he keeps the hair tie in his pocket like a totem.

He remembers - only _now_ \- that Alexander is a year younger, so there’s a good chance he’s not starting this year regardless of anything else. 

_Idiot_ , he thinks of himself, in Alexander’s voice.

***

A week and a half into classes, John admits defeat. Even if Alexander is somewhere here within the immense university system, he must not be taking any of the same classes, and there’s no way for John to extract information about whether he’s applied or registered (and yes, he has been down to the student records office, his hail-mary attempt - but of course this is confidential information and he's not going to go as far as to forge a consent form).

But even without Alexander, Columbia and New York are wonderful. Away from the stifling Laurens homestead, John feels his truer self finally rise from its crouch and stretch its cramped back. He doesn’t need all the masks anymore.

And, while he’s not going to wear rainbow t-shirts and make out with guys in the middle of a lecture, he doesn’t have to pretend not to be himself. He breathes easy for the first time since his mom died.

***

The next Tuesday, John is wasting time in Economics playing games on his phone when the door to the lecture hall opens, about half-way into the class. 

John dies, then resurrects.

He’s taller and more serious. His hair neatly pulled back. A shadow of a beard on his jaw. Arms wrapped protectively around his textbooks. Every line of his body is more guarded.

But not for a second does John doubt it. 

It’s his Alexander - all the way from the proud way he tilts up his jaw to the electric flash in his eyes to the charming, self-effacing way he explains to the professor that his study visa got delayed in the postal system, which has still not fully recovered from the storm.

Alexander takes his spot in the front row, right on the edge of his seat, and minutes later his hand is in the air to ask a question so complex the professor takes a moment to unpack it. He chews the end of his pen. His attention is laser-focused on the front of the room. There’s defiance and pride and eagerness in the set of his shoulders, like he’s daring anyone to doubt that he’s earned his place here.

John catalogues all of these things - simultaneously glad for the chance to do so and cursing time, and space and social convention, because all of them prevent him from leaping up right then and-- And, what?

 _Idiot_.

***

As soon as they are dismissed, John chases after him. Alexander has a considerable head start, and John has to shove and push through the mass of students between him and the door.

But luck is on his side, because Alexander is standing just outside, carefully studying what looks like a syllabus. John is just about to reach out, or say something, when Alexander turns, bumps into him and apologises reflexively before looking up. It takes a moment, perhaps because of the incongruous setting, but John sees recognition dawn on his face. 

There is a suspicion, a hardness in Alexander’s expression that wasn’t there before. 

“Why are you here?” Alexander says, half-accusing.

John is undaunted. There is so much joy in his chest that it beams out through his smile. He’s surprised his ribcage doesn’t burst open with it. “Well, class just ended,” he says lightly. 

“No! I mean-- _Here_?”

John shrugs. “A really smart person told me once that the best law programmes are at the smaller schools. Oh, wait.” He digs in his pocket and pulls out the hair tie. “You left this. In my room. Do you need it back?”

Alexander stares at it, struck dumb. 

Then the defences fall away and his face melts into that fond smile, just like John remembers, the one indelible memory that has resisted all dissolution. 

“You’re an idiot, John Laurens,” he says, and throws his arms around John’s neck.

And when John wraps his arms around Alexander in return, tears threatening, heart racing, all he can think is, _you’re here, you’re safe, and I’ll never let you go again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not crying, you're crying.
> 
> \---
> 
> Questions? Requests? Prompts? Come chat to me on Tumblr - @my-deer-friend :)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Summer's End by Foo Fighters.
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments!


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